


All the Fun

by Parda



Series: Connor and Alex [3]
Category: Highlander (Movies), Highlander: The Series
Genre: Bachelor Parties, F/M, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 10:32:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 45,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12886002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parda/pseuds/Parda
Summary: Duncan and Richie host Connor MacLeod's bachelor party and Rachel Ellenstein oversees the perfect wedding, but when Lt. John Stenn of NYPD starts hunting the beheader known as Russell Nash, the honeymoon plans soon go awry.





	1. Bachelor Parties

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in the HL3 movie universe, so the events of HL2 and HL4: Endgame didn't happen here.

_**Saturday, 27 August 1994  
New York City** _

* * *

**The Men - Out on the Town**

* * *

"Take it off!" Richie Ryan yelled, pounding on the table and almost knocking over the beer bottles.

"She is taking it off, Richie," Duncan MacLeod observed as he rescued his beer from an imminent demise, even though this brand of beer really wasn't worth drinking.

"All off," his kinsman, Connor MacLeod, agreed, keeping a close eye on the proceedings.

Duncan couldn't argue with that. The total area of cloth still covering the limber ecdysiast probably amounted to less than half a square foot, and it was disappearing an inch at a time. Duncan took a drink of beer and leaned back in his chair. It had been a long time since he'd been to a strip-joint, but Richie had insisted. In fact, he had talked about little else since the invitations had arrived a month ago.

Duncan and Richie had spent the summer hiking in the Pyrenees and swimming in the Mediterranean (topless beaches were still a novelty in Richie's eyes), sparring every morning, drinking wine and dancing with pretty girls almost every night, moving on again in a day or two or four, as the mood took them. They were both building new lives - Richie settling into his immortality, Duncan finally letting go of his mourning for Tessa - and the footloose existence had suited them both - no schedule, no pressure … no ties.

At the end of July, mail arrived at their hotel by special courier: large, hand-addressed cream-colored envelopes from the States, one for Richie, one for Duncan. "Hey, Mac," Richie said, peering at the return address. "You know anyone in South Tamaqua, Pennsylvania?"

"No." Duncan shrugged and opened the envelope, only to find another envelope inside, this one addressed simply to "Duncan." Inside that envelope was an even smaller envelope, and a sheet handwritten in beautiful calligraphy - a wedding invitation. Duncan leaned back against the headboard of the hotel bed to read.

* * *

_Mrs. Margaret Johnson_

_requests the honor of your presence_

_at the marriage of her daughter_

_Alexandra Elise Johnson_

_to_

_Connor MacLeod_

* * *

"What!" Duncan sat bolt upright, spluttering. Connor was getting married? Connor?

"Holy shit," Richie breathed, staring at his own invitation. "Sir Lancelot ties the knot. Huh. Hey, did Connor tell you anything about this-" he looked at the invitation again "-Alexandra Elise Johnson woman when he and John stayed with you on the barge back in March?"

"No," Duncan said sourly. "Not a word." Of course, Connor had never been one for small talk. Duncan snorted. Connor had never been one for any kind of talk.

Duncan reached for the smallest envelope and took out the reply card. There was already a checkmark placed next to "Will Attend," and at the bottom of the card Connor had written in his small, precise handwriting, "You're my best man."

"How'd Connor know where we were?" Richie asked. "We've been on the move for weeks."

"When I told him I'd sold the barge and that you and I were traveling around Europe, he said John was collecting postcards, and he asked me to send John one from every new town." Duncan shook his head and swore under his breath, smiling in amusement and exasperation. Connor had always liked to surprise people, and he had just done an excellent job.

"Why didn't he just tell you to keep in touch?"

"Because then I would have asked him why."

"Seems kind of … devious."

"Just keeping things private, until he's ready. He's like that."

"Must run in the family," Richie said under his breath.

Duncan pretended not to hear. He reached for telephone next to his bed; Connor had better do some explaining now.

Connor explained - briefly, of course. He had met Alex (Dr. Alexandra Johnson, noted archeologist) in January. They had started dating in April, right after Connor and John had returned from France, and over the Fourth of July weekend Alex and Connor had decided to get married. John liked her, too.

No, Duncan did not have to wear a tuxedo or a kilt for the wedding. No, Richie certainly didn't have to rent a tuxedo - and please God not a kilt! - for the wedding, either. The wedding was going to be casual and private, with just family. (Richie would like to know Connor included him in the family, Duncan thought.) John would be there, of course, and Connor's long-ago-adopted daughter, Rachel Ellenstein. Alex's mother, Margaret, was going to be the "best woman," and Alex's older brother and his wife and two kids would be there, too. And one or two other friends.

Not in a church, at Connor's place on Hudson Street. It was plenty big enough. Their immortal friend Sean Burns would perform the ceremony; he was a psychiatrist now, but he'd spent a century or so as a monk. He'd be flying in from France that morning. The legal wedding would be taken care of by a judge the Friday before. No, Connor was _not_ going to tell Duncan where the honeymoon was going to be. Wedding presents? Surprise me.

"You caught me by surprise with this," Duncan said, the words both an admission and a rebuke.

In the silence that followed, Duncan could see Connor's lowered gaze and embarrassed nod, the unspoken apology well-known and well-understood, if not exactly frequent. "Sometimes these things don't work out," Connor said finally.

And explaining - or even mentioning - a failed love affair was not something Connor would ever want to do, Duncan knew. Duncan dropped that and moved on. "Does she know?"

"Yes, everything." Connor paused. "The Game, and the Prize."

"What's she like?" That was what Duncan really wanted to know.

"A good woman," he said, "and fun. She taught John and me to do the Hokey Pokey."

"The Hokey Pokey," Duncan repeated, trying to dredge the song from four centuries of memories.

"You know." Connor started to sing: "'You put your right foot in, you put your right foot out.'"

"Oh, yeah," Duncan said, remembering now. It had been all the rage about forty years ago. "Where you put your hands on the waist of the person in front of you."

"No, that's the Bunny Hop," Connor corrected. "That was on the flip side of the 45. In the Hokey Pokey you usually stand facing each other or side by side. After John was asleep, Alex decided the Hokey Pokey was best done naked."

"Uh … right," Duncan said. _You put your right hand in, you put your right hand out, you put your right in, and you shake it all about._

"The last verse is the best," Connor supplied helpfully.

"Uh-huh," Duncan replied, angling away from Richie so the boy couldn't see his face. _You put your wholeself in, you put your wholeself out … you do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself around. That's what it's all about!_

"Or maybe it was the second to last," Connor mused.

_You put your head in, you put your head out …_ Duncan stopped himself right there. Yup. A fun woman. Duncan nodded, satisfied. He didn't want to have all of the fun and all of the good women. Connor deserved to be happy, too, and Duncan was glad to hear that his kinsman had found someone again. Duncan buried his own thoughts about Tessa, about Little Deer, about Terese, about Debra. "Congratulations, Connor," he said, putting all the warmth and sincerity he could into those two words.

"Thanks, Duncan." Two more words, said often before, but heartfelt every time.

"I'm looking forward to meeting her."

Connor laughed, that familiar dry chuckle. "Come to New York the week before the wedding. You and Richie can stay at the apartment above the antique store. We'll have some fun."

And they did. Richie hadn't been to New York City before, and he wanted to see everything. Ten-year-old John was just as eager to sightsee, and the three MacLeods and Richie and Alex, and sometimes Rachel, went everywhere.

There were quieter moments, too, when Duncan and Alex got a chance to talk. "You and Connor haven't known each other very long," Duncan commented as he and Alex sat drinking coffee one morning in a little restaurant in Greenwich Village, just a few blocks from Connor's store.

"About seven months," she agreed, "but sometimes I feel as though I've known him my entire life." She gave a small puff of air upward, blowing her bangs off her forehead, the way Tessa used to do. Then Alex shook her head in amused exasperation. Tessa used to do that, too. Duncan glanced away.

"Other times," Alex said, "I think I'll never know him, no matter how much time we spend together." She added milk to her coffee and stirred. "Connor's very … private."

"Yeah, he is," Duncan agreed. "We get that way."

"Richie hasn't been immortal very long, then," Alex observed.

Duncan had to smile. "Nine months." Nine months and two days.

"So, he really is as old as he looks."

"He'll be twenty next month," Duncan said. Maybe he should start looking for a birthday present.

Alex leaned forward a little, her hands not quite steepled but with her fingers interlaced, her dark blue eyes inquisitive and focused. Her voice, naturally husky, was low as she asked, "Who's the oldest Immortal you've met?"

Duncan had to think about that. "Rebecca, I guess. She was about three thousand. Connor's teacher, Ramirez, was close to twenty-five hundred when he died, and Darius was almost two thousand."

"Darius and Rebecca are dead, too." Alex didn't make it a question.

"Darius died in May of last year, and Rebecca four months ago," he confirmed briefly then turned to more pleasant matters. "Everything ready for the wedding? Flowers, music, cake?"

"Hundreds of black orchids and fifteen bagpipers, with drummers and pipers, too," Alex said and then laughed aloud at Duncan's start of surprise. "No, we're having roses with heather and greens, and a string trio: violin, viola, and cello. I suggested a harp, but Connor said no."

Duncan nodded as he reached for his cup. "He doesn't like harp music." There'd been one evening in a smoky low-ceilinged inn, up near Paisley it had been, when Connor had walked out as soon as the harper had started to tune. Caterwauling on cat-gut, Connor had called it. He didn't like metal-strung harps any better.

Alex lifted an eyebrow. "So much for that Celtic stereotype."

"Connor," Duncan stated, "is not a stereotypical anything."

"That's certainly true," Alex said, with a small smile that was anything but demure. "But he can be a traditionalist, with some very old traditions. We're having two cakes: a bride's cake and a groom's cake. The bride's cake is white, of course, and the groom's cake will be chocolate. John is happy about that, and Elaine and Jimmy will be, too. They're my brother Pete's kids," she explained.

"Is the chocolate cake only for the kids?" Duncan inquired. Richie would have something to say about that. So would Duncan. He liked chocolate.

"You can wrestle them for it," Alex suggested with another smile, wider this time. "Are older Immortals different?" Alex asked, turning right back to immortal matters, not letting that go. A stubborn woman, Connor had said, and he was right.

Duncan let out a careful hiss of a sigh between his teeth. "We're all different, Alex," he answered finally. "Some of us are usually happy, looking forward to new things. Some get grim and depressed as the years go by. Most of us do a little of both. And some of us never seem to grow up," Duncan said, grinning a little as he thought of Amanda and Fitz. "We're priests, thieves, soldiers, librarians, doctors, con-artists … we're just people, Alex. That's all."

Alex nodded, but she didn't look totally convinced. Duncan didn't blame her. It wasn't all, and both of them knew it, and nobody could do a damn thing about it.

Early on Friday morning Connor made a quick trip with Alex to the courthouse in the morning for the legal ceremony, and then everyone went to Rachel's (formerly Connor's, c. 1915) small summer cottage at Breezy Point for a day at the beach. On Saturday, the women were busy with "things." The men were left to their own devices until the wedding on Sunday afternoon, because Rachel had made plans for a "bachelorette party" that evening: dinner at a restaurant followed by some movies at her house, and then a sleepover for the "girls."

"What movies?" Connor had asked when he had heard. Rachel had only smiled, arousing everybody's curiosity and suspicions, but she wasn't talking, not even when Duncan tried to persuade her. She was a stubborn woman, too. Duncan supposed she'd had to be, growing up with Connor as her dad.

Connor and Duncan and Richie and John spent Saturday at Coney Island, eating hot dogs and wasting money on rides and games; then they went to see the movie True Lies. John fell asleep on the couch at eight-thirty, exhausted by the long day and the busy week. Richie knew exactly what to do. "Let's go to a strip joint!"

Connor and Duncan exchanged glances. They'd been to strip joints. Lots of them.

Richie hadn't, at least, not enough of them. "It's tradition!" he said, outraged at their lack of enthusiasm. "What do you Scots do instead the night before a wedding?" he challenged them. "Go bowling? Arrange the pleats in your kilts?" He walked over and stared down at Connor, who was lounging back on the sofa with his feet up on the coffee table.

"Shear sheep?"

That did it. Mrs. Reston, a good friend of Rachel's, arrived to keep watch over John, and so the three men headed out into New York City on a Saturday night. Eventually, they found themselves drinking lousy and too-expensive beer in a smoky, noisy, crowded strip-joint, watching women gyrate on a stage and take off improbable costumes.

And having a pretty good time. Richie's enthusiasm was contagious, or at least amusing, and the night out on the town brought back fond memories of Duncan's own student days. Duncan glanced over at Connor, glad to see his former teacher looking relaxed and happy. Duncan hadn't seen much of Connor these last four decades or so, but this century had been a grim one, with two World Wars and plenty of smaller ones, dizzying changes in science and society, and the ever-faster pace of the Game. Connor had taken that grimness within himself, becoming more silent, more reserved, less likely to show up on Duncan's doorstep and suggest they go sailing, or go running, or just go. Go somewhere, anywhere, just for the sake of going, and seeing and doing and living.

Really living, not this endless brooding waiting that sucked out all enjoyment and excitement. After Connor's wife Brenda had been killed in a car accident seven years ago, sometimes it seemed to Duncan as though only the need to care for their adopted son, John, had kept Connor going. John had given Connor a reason to live, and now Alex was giving Connor a reason to laugh.

Connor was laughing now as Richie groused about the stripper. "Well, she's not taking it 'all off' fast enough," the young Immortal said.

"Yelling won't make her go faster," Duncan said, then pulled out a twenty dollar bill, getting ready to order something different to drink. "But something like this might."

"Thank you very much," Richie said as he plucked the money from Duncan's hand. "Hey, it's Connor's bachelor party, right?" he asked, smiling angelically at Duncan's glare. "And you're his best man." Richie shoved his chair back and went to talk to one of the dancers, a well-endowed redhead. The money disappeared into some small invisible pocket under the sequined panties, and the dancer arrived at their table.

"Good choice, Richie," Duncan said to his student as the lad settled back into his chair, mission accomplished. "Connor likes redheads. Especially healthy ones." He grinned cheerfully and leaned back in his own chair, getting ready to enjoy the show. "Don't you, Connor?"

Connor didn't answer. The show was already starting, and Connor was giving it - and her - his full attention.

* * *

**The Women - Going Home**

* * *

"Are you nervous, honey?" Mom asked, on the limo ride from the restaurant back to Rachel's house. "About tomorrow?"

Alex laughed. "Yes. But more about the wedding than the marriage." That wasn't a surprise, was it? She already _was_ married legally, though it didn't seem real. The civil ceremony had been quick, dry, and boring, performed by a tall, thin judge with a bad cold who had sneezed four times between the "I now pronounce" and "husband and wife."

"Congratulations," she said then called, "Next!" and it was done. Connor and Alex retreated to the hallway, where a triangular sign warned of a slippery floor and civil servants wandered back and forth with file boxes in their arms.

"Back to the loft?" Connor suggested, an eager gleam in his eyes.

"John and Duncan and Richie are there," Alex objected.

He nodded. "Right. A hotel, then. That's safer, anyway, with Duncan around."

"Oh, he wouldn't--," Alex began, but Connor raised an eyebrow and then turned for the stairs. "Connor," she said, laying a hand on his arm. "Let's wait. Until Sunday, after the real wedding. I want it to be special."

"We've been waiting," Connor pointed out. "All week, ever since Duncan and Richie got into town, and you moved back into your apartment to be with your mom."

"It's only been five days," she corrected. "Not all week."

"By the time the wedding is over two days from now, it will have been all week."

"Sunday night," she insisted, but with a smile, soft and tempting, dangerous and slow. "It'll be worth the wait."

Connor sighed then smiled back and bowed as he offered her his arm. "Sunday night," he'd agreed, even as he claimed her as his own: "Mrs. MacLeod."

"Yes," Alex had said, answering to her new name, her new husband, and she'd given him her hand as they headed to the lawyers to sign some papers.

Still, tomorrow was the wedding ceremony, and Alex was nervous about that. "I keep wondering if the musicians will show up on time," Alex admitted to her mother as the limo stopped for a red light. "Or if the food will be edible, or if I'll remember both my shoes. And I have this horrible feeling there's something I forgot to do."

"Oh, it's always that way," her sister-in-law, Lara, said. "I had to run out and buy a slip, just three hours before my wedding!"

"I remember," Mom said dryly, and Alex remembered, too.

"Mitzi got her start planning weddings as my maid of honor, over thirty years ago," Rachel reassured them, "and she's planned hundreds of them since then. The food will be fine, and if you forget something, she probably has an extra one somewhere."

"Even musicians?" Alex asked, though Mitzi's white van (emblazoned with the words "Mychelle's Wedding Designs" and decorated all over with pink hearts and doves outlined with black) seemed to hold any number of amazing things. Alex had watched her pack it a few days after Rachel had first suggested getting some professional help.

"Oh, thank you," Alex had said, on that hot and sticky July evening, as they sat in the small garden behind Rachel's brownstone and Rachel poured iced tea. "But I don't think--"

"Just in case," Rachel said, as she gently but firmly pressed a glass into Alex's hand. "The wedding's in six weeks, right?"

"The twenty-seventh of August," Alex agreed. "We've got the rings and the location; I've asked some musicians and a caterer. How much else can there be to do?" Rachel's lips twitched and her eyebrows went up, and Alex suddenly wondered if she might perhaps have bitten off more than she could chew.

"Do you have a dress yet?" came the next question.

"I'm going shopping next week." That had Alex a little nervous; usually, she just bought all her clothes through the mail. But L. L. Bean didn't carry wedding gowns, so she was going to have to brave a real store.

"Why don't you come watch Mitzi get ready on Friday?" Rachel suggested. "Just so you can see."

So Alex had watched Mitzi get ready, and had been astonished by the contents of the van. "Four different veils?"

"In case the bride's veil is stepped upon and torn," Mitzi had answered, her be-ringed fingers twinkling as she expertly coiled the lace into a stiff cardboard box. "This way, she has a choice. I have four spare wedding rings, too, for both bride and groom."

"Do you have slips?"

"Of course. Twelve kinds: white, ivory, slits, no slits, full-length, T-length, knee."

Alex had hired Mitzi that afternoon, shifting the wedding date from Saturday to Sunday so that Mitzi would be free. Alex knew she was lucky that Mitzi had any room in her schedule at all. People put deposits in with Mitzi before they even got engaged.

"Oh, for a friend of Rachel, anything!" Mitzi had exclaimed, her bright black eyes sparkling above a sharp blade of a nose. No one would ever call Mitzi pretty or nice - her features were too pronounced, her tongue too sharp - but no one ever forgot her, or no one ever just walked on by. "A striking woman," Connor had commented, and with her signature hand-painted silk scarves and tailored black linen pant suits, Mitzi turned heads all the time.

She had a head for business, too. Mitzi owned three florists and a bridal shop, and was planning on acquiring a jewelry store. "With me as her partner," Rachel had said then added thoughtfully, "We might even use a corner of the antique store. People could get their wedding presents there, too."

"Mychelle's Wedding Emporium," Alex had suggested flippantly, but Rachel had nodded with a still-thoughtful smile.

Rachel was smiling now, too, but it was more of a grin. "Mitzi hasn't had a live musician in the back of her van since Woodstock," Rachel said. "But she does have tapes of the music you've requested. She got them from the musicians ten days ago, just in case they're late or become ill."

"Oh," Alex said, surprised again by the odd, yet pleasurable, feeling of having things done for her, instead of doing everything by herself. "Well, good."

"Just relax, Alex," Rachel encouraged her. "It'll be fine. Do you have reservations for tomorrow night?"

"Yes, Connor and I are going to leave the party around ten and go to a hotel. Everybody else can stay at the loft if they want to and have a good time." The limo started moving again, its motor a gentle hum. Alex leaned back into the softness of the leather seat and stretched out her legs, all the way. She could get used to this.

"Which hotel?" Lara wanted to know.

"I don't know," Alex answered. "It's a surprise."

It was also a secret. "Duncan is _not_ going to know where we are," Connor had declared.

"Think he might put rice in the bed?" Alex had asked with a smile, but Connor hadn't smiled in return.

"It's better this way. Trust me."

And Alex did. She'd decided to trust him months ago, against her own better judgment and the cop's advice. Connor's advice, too. "You don't know what you're getting yourself into," he had told her the night they first met, when she had still known him by the name of Russell Nash, before she had known him at all. "Stay away."

She hadn't, not even after the cop had told her the same thing. "Russell Nash is a dangerous man," Lieutenant Stenn had told her as they sat in an all-night pool hall hazy with cigarette smoke, and smelling of mildew and over-ripe cheese. "Now I suggest you stay away from him." His narrow, stubbled face was earnest, his watery blue eyes red-rimmed. His hands shook slightly from continuous overdoes of nicotine and caffeine. It was five in the morning, and neither the lieutenant nor Alex had gotten any sleep at all; she'd been chasing after Connor MacLeod, and so had John Stenn. And so had a slimy Immortal named Kane.

Connor and the lieutenant had been right, both of them. She hadn't known what she was getting into, and Connor was a dangerous man. But he wasn't dangerous to her, no matter what Lieutenant Stenn or her friend Tommy thought. Or said. Or insisted. Alex was sure.

"Some butterflies in the stomach are normal, of course," her mother was saying. The limo turned a corner, only three blocks from Rachel's house. "But I'm not surprised you don't have them about Connor. He's a good man, and you always were one to know exactly what you wanted."

"And to know how to get it," put in Lara, laughing. "Your brother's told me some stories about you."

"I chased Connor until he caught me," Alex admitted, smiling, completely certain that marrying Connor was the right thing to do. "How is Pete doing?" she asked. She hadn't seen him since the family had gathered in Pennsylvania for the Fourth of July at Mom's, the weekend she and Connor had gotten engaged.

Mom had been really excited. "Have you picked the colors for your wedding yet?" she'd asked after dropping the kitchen towel on the floor and giving Alex a hug. Alex had blinked before answering, "Uh, no. I've only been engaged about twelve hours, Mom. I haven't really thought about it yet." She'd never thought about it at all.

That had been BTW: before the wedding. Alex could now converse knowledgeably about MOB dresses, ring-bearer pillows, and custom-dyed shoes for bridesmaids. Alex was more than ready to get the wedding over with. At least Mom was still excited.

"Oh, Pete's good," Lara was saying. "Tired from the drive today. It's a long ride from Vermont when you've got two kids bouncing around in the back of the car. He said he was just as happy to stay at the hotel with them and let me go out for a 'night with the girls'."

"Aren't you tired?"

"Oh, no," Lara said with a grin. "I napped while he drove."

"We're here!" announced Rachel. The four women got out of the limo and went down the stairs into the entryway of the brownstone. Rachel unlocked the door and led them into a hallway crowded with two bicycles and a pair of large garbage cans. She unlocked another door that opened onto a staircase.

"What's that other door to?" asked Lara, pointing down the hall, as curious as always.

"That's the basement apartment," Rachel answered. "When the house was first built, this ground floor was the dining room and the kitchen, but it was turned into an apartment during World War II. I'm renting it to two college girls now. They're probably out dancing tonight."

"You own the building?" Mom asked as they went up the staircase.

"Yes, my husband's grandfather bought it, over a century ago. David and I lived in the fourth-floor apartment right after we were married, not that he was here much. The Army kept sending him places, and then with Vietnam..." Rachel turned to the right at the top of the stairs and opened the door to the living room. "David's brother didn't want the house - he's in California - and so when my mother-in-law died in '77 she left me the house in her will, to keep it in the family."

Alex and Rachel walked into the living room, but Mom and Lara stopped in the doorway. "Oh, my," Mom said in surprise, and Lara added a "Wow." Alex had done the same thing the first time she'd been here. The house may have been built in the Victorian period, but the furnishing was minimalist Danish modern, all spare lines and glass and polished wood and open space. A large Mondrian painting of stark red and blue lines hung over the fireplace, and a set of Japanese raku pottery in blues and browns was the main decoration on the open bookshelves against the wall to the right.

"I work with antiques all day," Rachel explained as she walked past the three tall, narrow windows that looked out over the street. "I like a change of pace when I come home."

"It's lovely," Mom said, and she came on in. "Very relaxing. Very...clean."

Rachel laughed as she turned on the light in the corner. "I've been working at the store for over twenty-five years, and I've come to _hate_ dusting curlicues on furniture. Mitzi hates dusting, too."

"Will she be here soon?" Alex asked.

"She'll be home before midnight, and then we'll start the movie. In the meantime … margaritas, anyone?"

* * *

**The Men - Going Home**

* * *

"New York, New York!" Richie warbled happily, making his way down the sidewalk.

"Is he always this cheerful?" Connor asked Duncan, as the MacLeods followed a few paces behind, on their way home from the third - and final, over Richie's protests - strip joint.

"Usually," Duncan admitted.

"Better not introduce him to Fitzcairn," Connor cautioned, watching the erratic progress of his student's student past the subway entrance. "The boy might lead Fitz into bad habits."

"It's a hell of a town!" Richie continued.

"At least it's not raining," Duncan said, with a sidelong glance at Connor. "Richie likes old movies."

Connor started to laugh at the image of Richie dancing with an umbrella and singing in the rain. "Gene Kelly he's not," Connor said firmly. "But he looks like he's a good kid."

"Yeah," Duncan agreed, gazing at his student, who was now swinging one-handed around a lamppost. "He is."

"How's he doing?" Connor asked. Richie had become an Immortal less than a year ago, and the transition was not an easy one. Neither was the life.

"All right," Duncan said. "He took his first head six months ago."

Connor raised one eyebrow. "That was quick."

"Too quick," Duncan said sourly as they started walking again, following Richie's lead. "We had a … discussion about it, but he didn't listen."

"I can't imagine that," Connor commented with a completely straight face, and it was Duncan's turn to laugh.

"You don't have to imagine it, Connor. I gave you plenty to remember."

"Good memories," Connor said, grinning, too, and he clapped Duncan on the back. "I'm glad you came to New York for the wedding, Duncan."

"Wouldn't have missed it for the world," Duncan answered warmly, but the shadows in his eyes weren't only from the street lamps.

Connor knew why. There had been another wedding planned, less than a year ago, and Connor was to have been Duncan's best man. But Tessa had been murdered, shot down in the street in the same senseless mugging that had made Richie an Immortal, and Duncan's life had been shattered once again. He was still putting the pieces back together. This time Connor's hand lingered on his kinsman's shoulder as he said quietly, "It's never enough time."

"No," Duncan agreed. "But it's all we've got."

"And all they have, too." Connor looked up, trying to see the stars, but the lights of heaven were drowned by the lights of man.

Brenda hadn't had very long at all, but she'd known a lot, just the same. "One year of love, even though it ends in death, is better than an eternity alone," she had said to him once, and it had become so wonderfully - and then so terribly - true. Almost a year later, she had died in Connor's arms.

But it had been a good year. A great year. Brenda had made it so. And because of her, and because of what she had taught him, Connor had decided to take a chance and risk his heart again, to have the family he'd wanted for so long. Connor didn't need to look up at the heavens anymore. The stars were always shining, even beyond the glare.

A police car cruised by, and Duncan muttered a curse when it pulled over at the street corner, right next to Richie and the two prostitutes who were sauntering toward the boy. "New York's finest," Connor said as he and Duncan hurried to catch up to their young friend. "It must be an election year."

* * *

**The Women - Rolling Along**

* * *

"Oh my God, I can't believe he did that!" shrieked Lara, pointing at the screen.

"Him?" Alex said, almost choking on a nacho. "What about her?"

"There goes her foot, there goes her foot!" Mom called.

"That settles it, ladies," Mitzi announced from her seat next to Rachel on the couch. "We should all drink pink champagne."

"We have to," Lara said mournfully, tilting the pitcher. "The margaritas are gone."

"The champagne's in the refrigerator," Rachel said, starting to get up.

"I'll get it," Alex volunteered.

Mom joined her in the kitchen, a shining space of chrome and stainless steel. "Rachel seems very nice," Mom said as she took glasses from a cupboard and set them on a tray.

"Oh, she is," Alex agreed, rummaging in a drawer for the cork puller. "She's great. And she said just about the same thing you did when Connor and I told her we were getting married."

"'That's wonderful'?"

"Yes, that," Alex agreed. "And then she said, 'It's about time.'"

"I never said that," Mom protested.

"You thought it."

"Well...," Mom admitted with a laugh. "You did seem married to your work for a while," she said, and it was true. "Not that a career isn't important, of course," Mom continued, "but there's more to life than a job."

Alex grinned. "I know." She'd always known that; it was only lately that she'd found it. "Ready?" she asked, and they carried the champagne and the glasses into the living room. They paused the movie while Mitzi did the honors with the cork and Rachel poured.

Lara sipped her champagne then leaned back in her chair with a contented sigh, wiggling her toes. "What a great party! And great food. That Chinese place was fantastic!"

Rachel nodded. "The Jade Dragon has been a favorite of ours for years."

It was one of Alex's favorites now, too. And it had been a marvelous dinner, even if there had been that awkward moment when Lara had wanted to know what Connor's Chinese birth year was. "You were born in the Year of the Tiger, weren't you, Alex?" she'd asked, scanning the horoscope page on the back of the menu. "Is Connor a Tiger, too?"

Alex had looked up blankly, not knowing what to say, because 1518 certainly wasn't listed as a birth year and besides that, the date would have to be converted from Julian to Gregorian. "Um..."

"His birthday's in January," Rachel had put in smoothly. "So it's before the Chinese New Year. I'm not sure if that means he's the one before or the one after. What's your Chinese sign, Lara?"

"I'm a Rat," she'd said, going back to the menu. "It says I'm 'charming, persuasive, and often self-centered.' Hey! I don't think I'm like that. Do you think I'm like that? The self-centered part, I mean, not the charming and persuasive parts."

Mom had agreed that, no, of course not, Lara wasn't self-centered, and Alex had agreed too. It was true, mostly.

"I can see why you like that restaurant," Lara was saying to Rachel. "And it was really great that Alex got the best fortune cookie, especially once we added 'in between the sheets' to it."

"What was it again, honey?" Mom asked.

Alex pulled the scrap of paper out from her purse to read: "'It is not how much you do, but how much love you put in the doing."

"I like that one," Rachel said thoughtfully. "Even without the 'sheets' bit added on."

"If only it were true for laundry," Mom replied, and Alex smiled as she put the paper away to use in her wedding scrapbook later on.

Lara sighed dramatically. "Of course, I'm the one who got stuck with, 'There is no love like self love...in between the sheets.'"

"There is some truth to that," Mitzi said, and everyone nodded thoughtfully.

"Yes," Lara said, "but not as much fun," and everyone nodded again.

"Mine was sweet," Mom said. "Both ways. 'True gold fears no fire.'"

"Mine was awful," Rachel said. "Beware of odors from unfamiliar sources..."

"...in between the sheets!" Lara added.

"It is good advice, dear," Mitzi said, patting her arm.

Rachel smiled sweetly. "I'll get you yours." She went to the kitchen and came back with the cookie. All the women leaned forward as Mitzi broke it open and unrolled the scrap of paper, then sat holding it. "Well?" Rachel finally asked.

Mitzi straightened, tossed back her head, and proclaimed: "Ignorance is not innocence but a lack of effort..."

And all the women gleefully chanted, "...in between the sheets!"

"It is good advice, dear," Rachel told her, smiling sweetly again as she patted Mitzi's arm.

Mitzi returned her smile fondly then declared, "I need more champagne."

"I haven't had a 'girls' night out' in years," Lara said as the glasses were refilled. "And it really is a night out, the whole night. I can't remember the last time I had a slumber party. For me, that is. Elaine had one on her eighth birthday party." She shook her head. "Those girls giggled the whole time."

"That's what we're doing," Alex pointed out.

"But not for the same reason," Mitzi countered.

"God, I hope not," Lara said, rolling her eyes.

"Thank you for letting us spend the night, Rachel," Mom said, moving the conversation along. "It really is a treat, and tomorrow morning won't be as rushed since we're all at the same place, and your house is closer to Connor's than Alex's apartment."

"Plus it's more fun!" Lara said.

"That's exactly why I suggested it," Rachel agreed.

"Speaking of fun," Mitzi said, "are we ready for the movie again?"

"Oh, yes!" Lara said, and everyone turned back to the screen.

"Oh my goodness," Mom murmured a little while later from the corner. "The look on his face..."

"And hers," Rachel put in, leaning forward to see better.

As Alex sipped at her champagne, she wondered how things were going back at the loft. John was no doubt asleep-it was nearly two in the morning-but the three immortals might have decided to stay up and watch a movie or play cards. Or maybe they were having fun with swords. Alex shrugged mentally and went back to enjoying herself. Connor had told her there was nothing to worry about; he'd take care of "the boys."

* * *

**The Men - Waylaid**

* * *

Connor was beginning to be worried. The cops hadn't been that interested in Richie, and had been about to tell them all to go on home, when the tall cop - whose nametag read Ramirez, Connor had noticed earlier with some amusement - suddenly motioned to Carlton, his gray-haired partner, and said a few quiet words.

"Watch it," Connor said to Duncan, for the cops were looking at his kinsman very thoroughly. Then the cops nodded to each other, and the older one approached.

"If you'll just come with us to the station," Carlton said to Duncan, "we have a few questions for you."

"What kind of questions?" Connor snarled, moving partially between Carlton and Duncan, noting with approval that Richie had taken up a position nearby, but not close enough to get in the way.

The cop's weary eyes, almost colorless in the glare of the streetlight, slid over him and came back to his face, then stayed there. "Just some questions," he said evenly, though his tension at the confrontation showed in the set of his jaw and the tightness of his shoulders, visible even under the ill-fitting uniform. Behind him, Ramirez placed a hand on his gun.

"Connor," Duncan said smoothly, stepping out into the open, his hands spread wide, "it's OK. Probably just a case of mistaken identity." He smiled at Ramirez. "Isn't that right, Officer?"

"We'll see," Ramirez said noncommittally

"Nothing to worry about, Connor," Duncan said cheerfully as he casually handed his coat to his former teacher and smiled reassuringly at his student. "We're always happy to cooperate with the police. Aren't we?" Richie gave him a wan smile back, but wisely kept his mouth shut as Duncan headed for the patrol car, Ramirez in front of him and Carlton carefully following behind.

Connor swore, the weight of Duncan's sword heavy on his arm, and he and Richie watched from the sidewalk as the police took Duncan away.

"New York, New York," Richie said again, not singing now. "It's a hell of a town."

* * *

_**Continued in Chapter 2: Butterflies** _


	2. Butterflies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Connor and Alex prepare for their wedding, Lt. John Stenn once more takes up the hunt for the beheader known as Russell Nash.

**_Sunday, 27 August 2011_ **

* * *

**The Bridal Party - The Morning After**

* * *

"I love New York," Rachel said to Alex, as the two women sat sipping their morning coffee in the tiny enclosed garden behind Rachel's house. The spot was shady enough to be comfortable, despite the warm mugginess of the air that promised a blistering hot afternoon. Rachel took a bagel from the tray on the small wrought-iron table that stood between them. "I know it makes me sound like that song, but it's true. I love the excitement, the opportunities, the variety of people, the plays, the museums..."

"There's no place like it on earth," Alex agreed, watching a delicate brown sparrow as it hopped on the paving stones that lay in a curving path between the nodding pink flowers of cyclamen. The bird's goal was probably the water puddle in the old grinding stone that lay half hidden by feather-leafed ferns and the dark foliage of the red astilbe at the end of the path. On the white-painted brick of the far wall, English ivy hid the pipes and gutters. In the spring, Alex remembered, gold and white daffodils replaced the pinks and reds. Rachel and Mitzi had created a peaceful oasis behind their home. All Alex had managed in her efficiency apartment was a potted ivy that climbed up her bookcases, and a row of herbs in front of the bedroom window, the only place that received any sun. Their new house, she had informed Connor, had to have space for a garden.

"Plenty of room for a garden in the Highlands," he had agreed cheerfully. "I'll tell the real estate agent to find us a couple of houses with gardens."

"I don't want to spend all of our honeymoon looking at houses," Alex had warned.

Connor had grinned and pulled her onto his lap. "Neither do I," he'd said and proceeded to demonstrate a few of the other things he had in mind.

Alex added some fresh coffee to her cup from the blue ceramic carafe, smiling to herself as she remembered that afternoon two weeks ago, and other afternoons, and various evenings and mornings and nights. And tonight - their wedding night - was going to be the best of all.

"You're going to miss New York," Rachel warned her.

"I know," Alex agreed. "But we'll come back at least once or twice a year." Connor had enough money to make that easy. Connor had a lot of money. He'd even given some of it to her, six days after they'd gotten engaged.

"I'm an Immortal, but I could still be dead tomorrow," Connor told Alex that night, as they sat on the red couch in front of the TV, soon after John had gone to bed. "I want you and John to have a place to stay, with everything legal, no way to dispute it, so I put your name on the title to the loft. Rachel owns the rest of the building. And you get this." He reached into the briefcase on the floor then handed her a list of accounts and various investments. "Just in case."

"Connor!" Alex protested in shock, when she saw the number of zeros that followed the dollar sign. "I can't possibly-"

"It's yours," he said flatly. "No matter what."

"But--"

"Rachel has more," Connor told her with a slightly tilted grin. "And so does John."

That helped, some, but... "This is dated today," Alex said, looking at the paper again. "Shouldn't it take effect after we get married?"

Connor shook his head. "Now." Alex opened her mouth to protest again, and Connor immediately interrupted her, again. "The money shouldn't be any part of your decision, Alex. I want you to want to marry _me_. You can back out now, next week, the day of the wedding - the money's still yours."

"I don't want the money, Connor," she said, dropping the paper on the floor. "I want to marry _you_." She kissed him then held him tightly in her arms, knowing words alone wouldn't be enough right now. He'd been abandoned too many times. "I love _you_. I never asked--"

"I wouldn't have given you the money if you'd asked," he broke in, and Alex blinked at the bluntness of his words and the determined look in his eyes - eyes of unflinching granite gray. He handed her the paper again, put it right in her hand and closed her fingers around it. "Take it. I want the choice to be yours."

She had to laugh at that. "But you won't give me a choice in this."

Connor wasn't laughing. "The choice to leave. Next week, next year, ten years from now. If you ever want to."

Alex started shaking her head. Marriage was forever, a lifelong contract, not a lease renewable from year to year. "I won't-"

"It's not easy, Alex, living with the Game."

She knew that. She'd seen Kane, and Connor had shown her what it was to live with death. She didn't like it, but people lived that way in other countries, or during wars. They managed, and so would she. But this... "Did you give money to Brenda, before you married her?" Alex asked. At Connor's nod, she pressed, "And? What did she do?"

"She slapped me in the face and ripped up the paper. Said she'd never been so insulted in her entire life."

Alex snapped her mouth shut. "Oh."

"Then I told her I'd always dreamed of marrying a woman who could support me in luxury." One side of his mouth curled upward, and his eyes lightened to a sky-washed blue: Connor's version of a self-amused grin. "She decided she would never be a kept woman, but keeping a gigolo might not be too bad."

Alex decided she rather liked the idea of Connor as a gigolo, too.

"I don't think she would have gone for it," Connor continued, "if I hadn't promised to do the cooking, too."

"Couldn't Brenda cook?"

Connor shook his head solemnly. "Terrible."

"I don't cook," Alex warned. "Just baking, and some simple recipes now and then, like macaroni and cheese." She could do hamburgers and hot dogs, too. Soup was easy enough, and maybe a tuna noodle casserole, as long as she had a can of cream of mushroom soup. But Connor was a chef. She'd seen him in the kitchen, with spices and French cookbooks spread in front of him, humming to himself as he diced and minced and julienned, then turned to sautéing and flambéing with ease. If she hadn't gotten so much exercise lately at the dojo and the gym - and in bed - she was certain she'd have gained ten pounds.

"John likes macaroni and cheese," Connor said equably and added more suggestively. "And I like your cookies."

"Do you?" she replied, trying not to smile.

Connor's gaze started at her eyes, went down to her toes, and then back up - very slowly. "Oh, yeah," he said, looking into her eyes again, with that huskiness in his voice that sent shivers all the way down her spine and then uncurled slowly deep inside. "Especially your macaroons," he said.

Alex folded the paper neatly and laid it on the table then turned her attention to Connor, staring right into his eyes as she placed both her palms flat against his chest. "Don't you ever think about anything but food?"

Connor raised an eyebrow at her. "Do you have something better to offer?"

Alex ran her right hand up to his shoulder and around to the back of his neck, burying her fingers in the softness of his hair. "I think so."

"So do I," Connor said and turned his head to kiss the inside of her wrist, just within his reach. Alex closed her eyes as the shivers exploded deep inside. Connor started tiny little nibbles at the base of her palm, but when the shivers made her tremble, Connor stopped to say, "Take the money, Alex."

She sighed in exasperation and frustration and pulled her hand from him. "Connor-"

"Alex." He caught her hand in his, the grip gentle and inexorable, just like the man. "Take it. The Game's not easy to live with," he repeated. "And neither am I."

"How would you know?" she challenged. "And isn't that my decision?"

"Yeah," he agreed, slow and cautious, but smiling just the same.

"My decision..." She shoved him backwards on the couch, and he pulled her with him as he fell. "...my choice. And I choose to marry you, Connor MacLeod." Alex loved the way he caught his breath whenever she called him by his name. "My love, for a lifetime," she reminded him and kissed him once more, determined and sure. Connor's hands roved with easy certainty from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine, and Alex loved that, too.

But Connor still wasn't done with business, and as soon as she lifted her head, he said it again, patient and inflexible, stubborn as a rock of granite gray. "The money's all invested, Alex. Ignore it or use it - start a company, sponsor an archeological dig, whatever - but it's yours."

"All right," she agreed, finally accepting his gift. Once they were married she'd have access to his money, anyway, some of it at least. This was just a little earlier, that was all. "I'll keep you as my gigolo. As long as you do the cooking," she warned.

"I'll cook," Connor promised.

"And don't think I'll let you neglect your other duties."

Connor grinned. "Don't you ever think about anything but sex?"

"Not with you lying underneath me," she told him and took him straight to bed.

~ ~ ~

"But...what do I do with it?" she'd asked Connor the next day.

"Buy me presents," he'd suggested, and Alex had: some books she had found in a rare book store, a sweater or two, an antique map - and a wedding ring, a plain gold band. She'd bought presents for her family, too, and even splurged on herself: a day at a spa and new clothes. She'd been writing checks for the wedding expenses, including Mitzi's hefty fee and a custom-made designer gown. She hadn't even begun to make a dent. Alex had decided not to think about it anymore, not for a while.

But she knew all that money would make their life easier, and that would help them to cope with the things that were hard - like the Game. Alex watched as another sparrow joined the first. One fluttered in the water; the other stood guard.

Rachel leaned back in the small wire-frame chair and regarded Alex steadily. "Ready for your big move?"

"Pretty much. I'll feel better once we find a house."

"The Highlands will be a big change for you, won't it?"

"Well, yes and no. I grew up in farm country in Pennsylvania, and we'll be able to keep horses in the Highlands. I miss that, getting up in the morning and going to the stables. When I was a kid, I used to ride Theseus every day before school. I think John misses riding, too." And so might their other children, someday, if that ever happened. "I know Connor does."

"Yes," Rachel agreed. "Connor loves horses - and the Highlands. It's such beautiful country."

"Have you been?"

"Oh, about thirty years ago. I'd heard so much about the Highlands from Connor while I was growing up that I wanted to see for myself."

"Did you go with Connor?"

"No, he was off traveling the world. I went with some college friends. We hiked near Ben Nevis and almost froze. We drank too much whisky and did get sick."

"Whisky is the other reason Connor gave for living there," Alex said with a laugh. "I'll miss New York, of course," Alex admitted, "but Connor has a townhouse in Edinburgh, so we can stay there part of the year, and with the Internet getting more common, it's easier to stay in touch with everything. I plan on doing consulting work with different museums, and I can travel for archeological digs. Besides," she said, adding one more item to her list of carefully thought-out reasons for leaving her job and her home, "we can always fly back here for visits."

"And there aren't many Immortals in the Highlands," Rachel observed knowingly, and Alex met her eyes across the table, those steady brown eyes that had watched Connor for nearly fifty years.

"No." Alex clutched her coffee with both hands, staring at nothing. "We've talked about that, too. Connor says we'll all be safer there." She smiled at Rachel, bright and hopeful. "It'll be a good place for us."

"Yes," Rachel agreed briskly. "It will." She reached across and patted Alex's hand. "You'll be fine."

Lara came outside through the kitchen door, dressed in her pajamas, yawning and rubbing her eyes. Her short blonde hair stood up in tufts. Rachel's gray cat, Dame Agatha, came with her. "Oh great, coffee and real bagels!" Lara exclaimed. "All we can get in Vermont is round bread with holes."

"Mitzi bought them this morning," Rachel explained as Lara joined them at the table. "She went to talk to the florist, and she'll be back in an hour or so."

"I guess we'd better get started," Alex said, yet she felt oddly reluctant to move at all.

"Your mom's taking a shower right now," Lara said to Alex and poured herself a cupful from the carafe. Dame Agatha crossed the patio and began a cautious stalk along the brick walkway. The two sparrows immediately flew away and landed on the birdfeeder attached to the side of the house, just outside the kitchen window.

"So," Lara said, adding a third spoonful of sugar to her coffee while Alex shuddered and turned away from the sight, "what time does the hairdresser arrive?"

~ ~ ~

Lara and Alex went running after breakfast, and when they got back at eleven, the hairdresser had just started work on Alex's mom. "You get a shower first," Lara said to Alex. "Your hair's more important than mine today." When Alex emerged, flushed and damp from the steamy bathroom, Rachel and Mitzi had already left for the loft to prepare for the "big event," and the hairdresser wasn't quite done with Mom. "I'm getting my shower now," Lara said. "Lunch is downstairs."

Alex sat alone in the kitchen and nibbled at the shrimp dip and crackers, all the while staring at the phone. She ought to call Tommy this morning. She should have called him weeks ago, but she'd been so busy, with the wedding and all the-

No. She hadn't been _that_ busy. She'd been afraid to talk to him, afraid of what she might say, of what Tommy _would_ say. She had thought of writing to him and trying to explain, but she'd never gotten very far.

* * *

_Dear Tommy,_

_I know you didn't think much of Connor when we had lunch together because he wasn't giving straight answers to your questions, but, you see, he's older than he looks, and so he tends to evade-_

* * *

_Dear Tommy,_

_I know you're disappointed in me for being obsessed with this guy, but he really is wonderful, and I do love him, more than I ever thought I-_

* * *

_Dear Tommy,_

_I know you think Connor is a liar and a murderer, and you're right, he is, but that's only because he's an Immortal, and so he has to lie about his age. Then there's this thing called The Game..._

* * *

All the explanations either made her sound like a female who trusted a man to the point of idiocy, or sooner or later they slammed straight into a wall of lies. Sooner, usually. Tommy was the kind of guy who would keep digging and digging at that wall until he'd undermined the whole thing, and it all came tumbling down. Just like Alex had done, when she'd chased Connor down in Scotland six months before.

So, she hadn't been able to explain anything to Tommy, not even when she'd told him she was getting married, and instead of congratulating her, he'd shaken his head in amazed disgust and looked away, running a hand through his curly brown hair. She hadn't been able to explain why she was quitting her job, either, or why she was moving away. "Jesus, Alex," Tommy had sworn when she'd told him. "How can you--? Don't you know how these guys work? He's taking you away from everyone you know, everyone who could help you if...if something goes wrong."

"Tommy, he's not like that. He loves me."

"Yeah, right. That's just what guys like that say." Tommy had given up the sarcasm and tried reason again. "Alex, that is one scary dude. He's got killer eyes, I'm telling you, and I don't just mean sexy."

"I know," she'd whispered, because it was true.

"And you're still going to marry him."

"Yes."

Tommy had shaken his head and swallowed hard, then taken her by the hands. "Look...call me, OK? If you need anything. Anytime. Middle of the night, whenever. You can even call collect. I'll fly out there, if you want."

"Oh, Tommy," Alex had said and hadn't bothered to blink back her tears. "Thank you."

"I just..." His bright blue eyes had been brighter than usual. "Don't you disappear," he'd ordered.

"I won't," she'd promised. "And I'll be fine. I love Connor, and Connor loves me. I know you don't trust him, and he is hard to get to know, but really, we'll be fine. Maybe you can visit us in Scotland, someday."

"Yeah, maybe," Tommy had said in the way that means "like hell," but he'd given up trying to stop her. She'd let go of his hands to hug him, and she'd kissed him on the cheek before she'd walked away. She hadn't spoken to him since. She'd missed him every day.

Alex took a deep breath and picked up the phone.

* * *

**The Best Man - Returned**

* * *

By noon, the city and its millions were steaming under the August sun. Connor was steaming, too, but not just from the heat. Duncan still hadn't returned from the police station, Connor's lawyer hadn't called, and the wedding was only five hours away. "I'm going to get Duncan," Connor told Richie in the downstairs apartment, where Connor and John had been hanging out ever since Mitzi had arrived and declared the loft off-limits so her decorators could move the furniture and create "a cathedral of greens."

"Stay here and watch over John," Connor continued. "Rachel and Mitzi will take care of everything upstairs. You can tell Alex or Rachel or Sean - but nobody else - where I am if I'm not back before three." Richie was still nodding as Connor walked out the door.

Connor didn't slow down when he entered the precinct house, but he wanted to. He'd been in this building before, first with Moran and Bedsoe nine years ago, and then with Lt. John Stenn six months ago. Connor hadn't enjoyed either visit.

New York's finest were operating at their usual high standards of efficiency today; Duncan was just being signed out. "What the hell was that about?" Connor asked.

"I matched the description of a guy wanted for murder in Queens," Duncan said. "They wanted to check my prints."

"That took all night?"

"No, but the line-up did."

Connor muttered some more obscenities as Duncan added, "I told you not to worry, Connor. I'm not wanted for murder in Queens."

Connor didn't want to think about the other four boroughs, the other forty-nine states, or any number of foreign countries. Connor hated fingerprints and Social Security Numbers and photo IDs. Life had been a lot simpler a century ago, when you could just walk away and change your name and nobody knew or cared. When you could die and revive without being buried alive by a mountain of paperwork. When fighting for your head had been the worst of your worries.

"Let's get out of here," he said to Duncan, avoiding looking at any of the cops, hoping that Stenn had the day off, hoping that the crawling feeling on the back of his neck was just from his usual paranoia. Once they were out of the building, Connor gave Duncan back his coat and his sword.

"Thanks," Duncan said, carrying his coat over his arm and somehow managing to make it look like a fashion statement instead of an oddity in the summer heat.

"Did Porasin ever show up?" Connor demanded as they merged into the throng on the sidewalk. He better have. The size of the retainer Connor paid to that law firm was more than enough to cover the loss of one's night sleep.

"Yes, and he did a good job, got things moving. He left about nine-thirty; his daughter was singing at church this morning." Duncan stretched his arms and yawned before he tilted his face to the sun. "I need a shower and some food, and I'd like to take a nap."

"You've got three hours," Connor told him as they headed for the subway. "The wedding starts in four."

* * *

**A Friend of the Bride - R.S.V.P.**

* * *

Tommy Maclure folded his bike and carried it up the three flights of stairs to his one-room apartment. Once inside, he hung his bike from its hook on the ceiling, in the corner above the day-bed. His helmet went under the couch. His shoes went on the pedals of the bike, his dripping socks went over the handlebars, and his sweat-soaked T-shirt and shorts went over the hooks on the door. Tommy went into the shower, with the water turned all the way cold.

He toweled his hair half-way dry after he'd rinsed off the sweat, but he didn't bother to dry the rest of him. Evaporation felt good. The air conditioning was on, but it didn't seem to help much, so he turned on the fan, too. Tommy grabbed a soda from the fridge and rolled the cold metal can against his forehead before he popped the lid. He lay down naked on the rug in front of the couch, the only floor-space in his apartment long enough to accommodate his six-foot-two frame. He rested the soda on his chest, moving it every few moments to equalize the temperature, and he closed his eyes as the breeze from the fan moved over him from knees to head and back again. He needed a fan with a larger arc. His feet were still hot, and moving the fan farther away decreased the breeze too much. Maybe a jug of cold water would help. He could put his feet on that.

Tommy stood and walked the three steps to the sink in the corner of the room. He punched the button on his answering machine and got out an old milk jug while the tape whirred in rewind, then started popping ice cubes out a tray, only half-listening as his girlfriend, Sally, asked what time he would show up for their bike ride, not listening at all to a request for a donation to rescue retired racing dogs. But he stopped the noisy job of breaking ice when Alex's voice came on.

"Tommy? Hi. I, um, I've been thinking about you, all this month."

Sure she had. When she wasn't too busy being wined and dined by Mr. Connor MacMillionaire, or driven around in his fancy car. Not that Tommy was jealous, or disliked that MacLeod fellow just because of his money, but...that guy was hiding something. Maybe drugs, maybe an ex-wife - or a dead one - maybe smuggling or Mafia connections, but something. Tommy knew it. He'd told Alex, but she had blithely assured him that MacLeod wasn't hiding anything from her. Talk about love being blind! He'd always known she was stubborn, but he'd never thought that Alex - Alex, of all people! - would ever be that stupid or that obsessed about a guy.

"I know you'd said you'd be busy," Alex's voice continued, "but...if your plans have changed, I really would like you to come to my wedding."

Oh, yeah, the wedding - and then the move to Scotland. She'd told him about that on the same day she'd quit her job, nearly five weeks ago.

"The wedding is today, five o'clock, the antique store at 1182 Hudson Street, near the intersection of Clarkson and Hudson, in the village." Her voice was brisker now, more assured, sounding more like the intelligent and resourceful woman he'd worked with and admired and respected for the last six years. The woman who was now dumping her whole career (not to mention her income and thus her independence) and her entire education (all nine frigging years of it) to become Mrs. Connor MacLeod, wife of a millionaire. Tommy popped a sliver of ice in his mouth and crunched it savagely between his teeth. So much for women's liberation. What the hell was she going to _do_ in Scotland, anyway? Dig up sheep bones?

"My mom and Pete are in town," Alex added. "They said they'd love to see you again. The shop is closed today, but there's a door on the back of the building you can use. Go up three flights of stairs and turn left."

No need. He wasn't going to go.

"You're my best friend, Tommy," Alex said, not sounding at all assured now. "I've missed you. I hope you can come. Please."

Then came the click and the whir, and Alex's words were hidden somewhere in the yards of tape. Tommy finished filling the jug with ice water, then lay back down on the floor, his feet propped on the jug. Her best friend. Damn straight he was. That day she'd quit her job, he'd even offered her what he _knew_ she was going to need: a way out.

But Alex had only protested again that all would be well, that she loved Connor and that Connor loved her. She'd given Tommy a hug and kissed him on the cheek, and Tommy had been left to watch helplessly as she'd walked away. He hadn't heard from her since, until this afternoon.

He'd seen her, though. He'd wandered over to Hudson Street a few times, or maybe it was four or five. He'd watched Alex and MacLeod going places, coming home, walking arm-in-arm. They looked happy enough, and everything seemed OK, but when Tommy talked to the other business owners on the street, not one of them had ever heard of Connor MacLeod except for these last couple of months. Yet MacLeod had said he'd lived in New York for years and owned the antique business, even though the brightly painted name on the shop read "Ellenstein Antiques."

So, either all five neighbors were lying to Tommy, or MacLeod was lying to Alex. Tommy couldn't afford a detective agency, so two weeks ago he'd finally gone to the police with his suspicions. The cop at the front desk hadn't been interested. "Look, kid, so your girlfriend dumped you for another guy. It happens."

"It's not that! I'm worried about her. I don't think she's safe with him."

The cop had sighed and leaned forward on two beefy forearms, his bald head gleaming in the glare of fluorescent lights. "Is he beating her up? Giving her drugs? Making her steal stuff?"

"No."

"Is she turning tricks? Is he her pimp?"

"No!"

The cop had shrugged and straightened up. "She's not complaining; he's not doing anything illegal...you got nothing, kid. My advice? Find another girl."

So Tommy had - a girl he'd met six months ago at the bike club, a girl who just happened to work in the records division for the police. He could have gone to her first, if he'd thought about it. Tanishia had been sympathetic and - more importantly - helpful. "Connor MacLeod doesn't have a file or a criminal record," she'd told him when he'd taken her out to lunch later that week. "Not even a parking ticket. I checked back twenty years. But he doesn't own that building. I called my friend over in Property and Titles. Rachel Ellenstein bought it from a guy named Russell Nash."

"Thanks, Tanishia," Tommy had said warmly, even though he still hadn't been satisfied. OK, so maybe that explained the name on the store, but lots of criminals had perfect records. It just meant that they were careful, not that they were clean. Even having a decent kid didn't prove anything; Tommy had met John when Alex had shown him around the museum back in early June, and Tommy had liked the kid a lot, even though he'd felt sorry for John, having to live with Connor MacLeod. Alex, on the other hand, had a choice, and she'd actually chosen to _marry_ the guy.

Tommy rolled over on his stomach and propped his chin on his hands, thinking of Alex's last words: "Her best friend. Please come." Damn it. He had to go, if only to let her know she could depend on him, no matter what. But he wasn't going to bring a wedding present, and he wasn't going to wear a tie. Tommy hauled himself to his feet and checked the clock on the wall: ten minutes to three, plenty of time to eat something, get dressed, and get over to Hudson Street by five.

* * *

**The Groomsmen - Waiting Around**

* * *

The women arrived from Rachel's house at three-thirty, piling out of the limousine with boxes and bags in the alley behind the store. Connor was watching from the apartment window until Richie pulled him away. "You can't see the bride ahead of time!" Richie insisted, and Duncan agreed, so Connor sat down on the couch and Duncan got each of them a beer.

Pete and Sean arrived, taking refuge from the on-going chaos upstairs, where Rachel and Mitzi were still overseeing the caterers and florists and musicians. Alex and her mother and Lara were - no doubt - monopolizing the master bedroom and the bath. John was playing in the storeroom across the hall with Alex's niece and nephew, and making a hell of a lot of noise. "He says they're being fighter jets," Duncan reported. "They're dropping bombs."

"So much for peace and quiet," Richie observed, raising his beer as he propped his feet up on the coffee table placed between the two dark green sofas, but not too close to Connor's feet, which were also propped there. Duncan's feet were on the floor, and one arm was draped across the back of the sofa, not quite touching Richie's shoulder.

"So, Connor, tell me about her," Sean said as he came out from behind the kitchen counter, thus forestalling a different kind of explosion, because Connor had been about to charge out the door to the storeroom and lay down the law on the kids. Sean sat on one of the kitchen stools, next to Pete, and sipped at his beer. "How did you and Alex meet?"

Connor picked his own beer up from the coffee table and leaned back on the sofa, resigning himself to the thumps on the wall. Sean was good at this sort of diversion. He probably got a lot of practice at it in his work. "Alex's an archeologist," Connor explained, tailoring his words for Pete's benefit. "Since I own an antique store, she came to me for some information in January, and she kept coming back until she got what she wanted."

"That's Alex," Pete said, with a rueful shake of his head and a grin, and Connor watched this masculine version of Alex in fascination, so like and yet so different. Pete's hair was a darker shade of blond than his sister's, and his neatly-trimmed beard was almost brown, but the eyes were just as blue, and the inquisitive tilt of the head and the challenging lift of the eyebrows were the same.

"I used to call her Burr when we were kids," Pete said, stretching his long legs out in front of him as he perched on the edge of the stool. "That's because she was like a burr in a horse's tail, kind of prickly on the outside and hard to get rid of."

Connor smiled to himself and drank some beer, filing that little piece of information away for future use. Duncan grinned at him from across the room, his dark hair hanging loose to his shoulders, the locks still damp and slightly curly from his recent shower. He and Connor were the only ones left in jeans and T-shirts; the other three men were in slacks and dress shirts. Their coats and ties waited in the closet.

"And when did she decide she wanted you, Connor?" Duncan asked, his dark eyes lively with amusement.

Connor had asked Alex the same question, a few days after he'd set the engagement ring on her finger. They had been walking on the beach hand-in-hand, watching the sea and the sky. "When did you first know?" he'd asked, while John had splashed in the waves. "That you wanted a lifetime with me?"

"When you didn't say goodbye."

When he had gone to fight Kane. Connor had stopped walking and lifted her hands in his, holding them against his heart. "I never do," he'd promised her. "Not to the people I love."

Duncan was one of those. Connor smiled at his kinsman and answered the question, "Alex decided she wanted me the first time I brought her to my home."

"Did you show her your etchings?" Richie asked, his eyebrows wagging suggestively.

"I think it was my extensive library and art collection that did the trick," Connor replied and added blandly, "Alex has a passion for ancient things, especially mine."

"Uh, yeah, right," Richie said with a gulp and a grin, and Duncan and Sean hid smiles.

"So, Sean, are you French?" Pete asked, oblivious to the real reason for the Immortals' amusement. "Lara said you flew in from Paris today."

"Irish, originally, but I moved to France some time ago," Sean answered, and Connor reflected that a few centuries qualified as "some time," even to someone over a thousand years old.

"And what do you do?" Pete continued, the quintessential American question.

"I'm a psychiatrist. I work at a hospital in Limay."

A damned good psychiatrist, Connor knew. Sean had done wonders with John after the kidnapping by Kane. Sean had helped Connor, too; though at first, Connor had resisted the idea. "I don't have a problem," Connor had insisted. "John's the one with the nightmares."

"And you don't have nightmares?" Sean had asked. "Ever? You don't dream of finding John's dead body on your doorstep? You don't blame yourself for almost getting your son killed?"

Connor had said nothing, because of course Sean was right. Connor had almost gotten John killed. Rachel had been in danger, too. Connor had been selfish and stupid and blind. He should have known. He should have stopped it. He should have-

Sean had come up behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder, a touch Connor wouldn't have permitted from any other man, except Duncan, of course. "It's not your fault," Sean had said.

"No?" Connor had demanded in anguish and rage.

"No. Not all of it."

Over the next seven weeks, Connor had come to see that Sean was right. John had gotten better, too. Not finished, either of them, but on the right road and walking together. That helped, and now that John knew about Immortality, Connor didn't have to lie anymore. When they left France, John gave "Dr. Sean" a gift of the origami tyrannosaurus head he had made, complete with teeth and eyes. Connor had presented Sean with a case of mead, one of the doctor's few indulgences, a reminder of his boyhood days.

"And what do you do, Pete?" asked the good doctor now, giving the other man his complete and focused interest, as he always did, the blue eyes warm and interested in a lined face, the reddish hair curling more than ever, clipped close in the short hair style of this decade. Duncan was one of the few male Immortals who flaunted long hair these days, though Connor had tried a ponytail for a few years back in the 1960s, just for hell of it, and for the memories it brought him of the 1760s, the 1660s, and the 1560s.

"In the winter, I'm a ski instructor in Vermont," Pete replied.

"Runs in the family then," Connor commented, because Alex had a set of skis hanging from her living room ceiling.

"Yeah, Alex comes to visit us all the time when we have snow," Pete agreed. "She's the one who got me started; I was more into hockey when we were kids. She's awesome on the slopes." He turned back to Richie. "In the summer, I spend most of my time fixing motorcycles."

"Yeah?" Richie said with interest. "What do you think of--" and he launched into a long string of numbers and words. Pete responded in kind.

Sean took his beer with him when he went upstairs a few moments later to take his place as the master of ceremony. Connor caught Duncan's eye, and the two of them went to the bedroom to get dressed. Thirty minutes to go until the wedding, and only six hours to go until Connor could finally take his wife to bed. Connor started to whistle.

"Haven't heard that tune in a while," Duncan commented as he buttoned his light gray dress shirt. "Not since Napoleon was on the throne." He grinned. "But I still remember the words."

Connor fastened a silver cuff link. "Why do you think I'm whistling? That's Alex's big brother in the next room."

* * *

**Not A Friend of the Groom - One Day**

* * *

Good police work, an old sergeant had told John Stenn and his classmates long ago, depended on three things: patience, perseverance, and perspicacity. "For you boneheads," he'd added, "that means: don't rush, don't quit, and pay attention!"

John Stenn remembered. He remembered a lot of things, things other people forgot, things other people never learned in the first place. But he remembered.

And he paid attention.

So when he walked past the vending machines at the police station and heard the name "MacLeod", he stopped to listen. Officer Ramirez was putting the moves on Tanishia, one of the girls who worked in Records, or maybe she was putting the moves on him. Hard to tell sometimes who was chasing and who was running. "This MacLeod fellow you picked up last night," Tanishia was saying, "was his first name Connor?"

"No. It was Donald, I think. Or maybe Duncan. Why?"

"Oh, nothing," she said. "I looked up a Connor MacLeod in Records a couple of weeks ago, and I wondered if it was the same guy."

"Where'd he live?" Stenn asked, and she turned startled eyes his way. Stenn repeated, "Where'd this Connor MacLeod live?"

"On Hudson Street," Tanishia answered. "In the village."

"At 1182," Stenn said, savoring each number.

"Yeah," she said in surprise. "How'd you know?"

"I remember things," he told her, not letting his fierce exultation show. Finally, that head-chopping bastard Nash was back in his sights. Using a different name, yeah, but when Russell Nash had been booked for breaking through customs at Newark Airport back in February, he'd been using a passport with the name Connor MacLeod, and he'd been raving about some boy named John MacLeod that he claimed had been kidnapped.

Nash had never bothered to file a report on the supposed "kidnapping," though...just another lie. "What'd you find?" Stenn asked.

"Nothing, Lieutenant," she said. "He was clean."

She would have found something if she'd looked under the name Russell Nash. "Why were you looking this guy up?" Stenn asked next. She hesitated, and he shook his head, saying softly, "Don't worry." He didn't care about procedure, not right now.

"See," she said, talking too fast, "this guy I know - a friend of mine - said he was worried about a friend of his, said she was getting into too deep with MacLeod. Tommy doesn't trust him, and he asked me if I could check him out. I mean I figured, what the heck, you know? If MacLeod was clean, no harm done. And if he wasn't, then the girl should know. Right?"

"Right," Stenn agreed. "You did good. What's your friend Tommy's last name?"

"Maclure."

Stenn filed that away before he turned to Ramirez. "Why'd you pick MacLeod up last night?"

"He matched the description of a murder suspect in Queens. His prints didn't turn up anything, and the line-up cleared him, so we let him go."

Stenn nodded and walked away, remembering other murders through the years, and one very recent one in Brooklyn.

Another beheading.

And Nash - or MacLeod, either Donald or Connor or Duncan, or whatever the hell that creep was calling himself these days - was back in town. "Patience, perseverance, and perspicacity," Stenn repeated to himself as he climbed the stairs. When he got to his desk he called his wife and told her he wouldn't be coming home for dinner that night.

Sharon didn't complain. She never did anymore, not since a bullet in his shoulder a year ago had woken him up to the fact that his family was more important to him than his job, and he'd turned down a promotion and switched precincts to be closer to home. Sharon knew he wouldn't stay late unless he absolutely had to. Not anymore.

"What's up?" she asked.

"The beheader."

"Good," she said fiercely. "Can you nail him this time?"

"I'm going to try," he promised. "Kiss Davey goodnight for me, would you?"

"Of course, sweetheart. Love you."

"Love you, too." Stenn hung up the phone and reread the report on the latest beheading, taking notes.

Not much longer now.

* * *

**The Mother of the Bride - Family Ties**

* * *

**  
**"Almost time, Alex," her mom said from the doorway of the bedroom. "Here's your bouquet. Did you remember both your shoes?"

Alex laughed and pointed to the shoes - both of them - by the oak chest at the foot of the bed. "And I have my slip," she said, pulling it on. The dress was next, a soft whispering of cream silk and lace. "Can you button me up, Mom?" Alex turned around, but she didn't have to pull her hair out of the way. The hairdresser had woven pink-tinged cream roses into Alex's crown of braids.

"There," her mother said when the tiny satin-covered buttons were finally done, and her hands - those calm and loving hands that had helped Alex so much through the years - smoothed the wrinkles of the gown on Alex's back.

"Thanks, Mom," Alex said, turning around to look at the woman who had cut the crusts off her sandwiches and bandaged her knees, who had helped her with spelling and calmly re-dyed Alex's hair after that awful mistake she'd made when she was fifteen, who had always been there. "Thanks for everything. I'm so glad you're my 'best woman' today." Right after the engagement, Alex had gone through her list of girlfriends from high school and from college and come up only with names of people she hadn't seen for years. Her mom was truly the closest friend she had. So Alex had asked her, and Mom of course had said yes.

"You've always been the best woman I know," Alex told her.

"Oh, honey," her mom said, and they hugged, carefully because of the clothes and the make-up and the hair, on both of them. "Thank you." She stepped back and gave a satisfied sigh. "You're beautiful. I only wish your father could be here."

Alex wished that, too. Nearly two years it had been now, since Pete had called to tell her that Dad was dead. "A brain aneurysm, they think." Pete's voice had sounded strangely calm, almost empty, and Alex, sitting at her desk at work, felt empty too, and numb with cold. "Mom said he was out cutting the grass, and then... Lara and I and the kids are on our way, but you're closer, Alex. Can you get out to Mom and--" Pete had stopped, because there was no "Mom and Dad's," not ever again. "Can you get to Mom right away?" Pete had said, and his voice hadn't been empty anymore. It had been filled with tears.

"Yes," Alex had said immediately, and she had left the city and driven westward, nearly blinded by the light from the setting sun and her own tears.

"You know, sometimes, when I'm at work," Alex said to her mom, as they stood in Connor's bedroom, "when we find a new artifact or uncover something exciting, I think: 'Oh, I need to call Dad and tell him.' And then I remember, I can't call him. Ever again. But I tell him anyway, in my mind." She toyed with the antique ring on her right forefinger, the ring her dad had given to her when she'd finally finished years and years of school and gotten her doctorate. "Do you talk to him, too?" Alex asked.

"Oh, yes," Mom said. "All the time. It helps." She took out a handkerchief and smiled even as she dabbed at her eyes, and then carefully dabbed at Alex's, too. "No more tears for us, Alex. We don't want Connor to think he's marrying into a family of raccoons."

"No," Alex agreed, laughing now.

"Oh, dear." Mom bit her lip. "I think I smeared your mascara."

Alex glanced at the French ormolu clock that stood on the table next to the king-sized bed. "Ten minutes, plenty of time." She walked past the wall of bookshelves and went into the bathroom to repair the damage.

* * *

**The Groom - A Smart-Dressed Man**

* * *

"It's time, Connor," Richie said, poking his head into the apartment. Connor and Duncan were the only ones left; Pete had gone up ten minutes ago to help Lara corral the kids. "Rachel said you can come upstairs now," Richie continued. "She's waiting by the door."

"Finally," Connor muttered. Something was seriously wrong with the world when a man couldn't even walk into his own house without permission. "You have the ring?" he asked Duncan.

"Yes, Connor," Duncan replied patiently, with a pat to his pocket. "I have the ring."

Connor nodded and started for the door, but Duncan stopped him with a frown and a worried shake of the head. "What?" Connor demanded. Richie was also shaking his head, looking grave. Connor glanced at his reflection in the mirror on the back of the door. Hair combed (what there was to comb), face freshly shaven, tie straight (almost, he gave it a tug to the left), shirt tucked in, fly zipped, shoelaces even, shoes shined... "What?" he demanded again.

"I'm telling you, Mac," Richie said sorrowfully, "the man does not have a boutonniere. I mean, what kind of a guy gets married without flowers?"

"I would never dream of it," Duncan agreed, at his most pompous, the tone suiting his appearance: charcoal gray suit with a light gray shirt, tie of subtly restrained burgundy and gray stripes, black shoes impeccably shined. Except for the ponytail, he could have been a funeral director. Richie's polka-dotted tie, on the other hand, reminded Connor of a used car salesman.

"God damn it--," Connor started, but Richie was already heading for the door.

"I got it! I got it!" he called over his shoulder, and in a few moments he was back, a floral offering held proudly in his hand. Connor stared at the pair of limp daisies hanging from a foot-long bedraggled stem, the roots still festooned with clumps of dirt. "I saw 'em in the alley earlier today," Richie said brightly. "And I thought, Wow. Even in New York City, between two dumpsters in an alley, flowers still bloom."

"And a tree grows in Brooklyn," Duncan put in. "But we don't need the dirt, Richie."

"Absolutely right, Mac, absolutely right. I couldn't have said it better myself." Richie flicked off the dirt chunks. Connor stepped back to avoid the flying clods. "And maybe it's a little, well...long," Richie observed, holding it out at arm's length. "But, a bit of a twist-," he broke the stem three inches below the ragged-edged leaves, "-and, voila!" He held out a single white-petaled flower with an eager, happy smile.

"I am not," Connor stated, "wearing a weed."

Richie's face fell. "Oh, but--"

"Connor," Duncan said reprovingly. "Richie's trying to help. And it's not a weed; it's a daisy, a symbol of loyal love. It's perfect for a wedding. Good job, Richie." Richie wriggled like a happy puppy as Duncan took the item in question and tucked it into Connor's buttonhole, giving the daisy a final pat before he stepped back to admire the effect with a fatuous smile on his face.

Connor reached out and snatched the rest of the long-stemmed weed - and it was a weed, God damn it, no matter what Duncan said - from Richie's hand, then pulled off the other flower and stuck it in Duncan's buttonhole, with a decidedly firm, almost aggressively firm, pat. "You're my best man, Duncan," Connor pointed out. "You need one, too." He handed the stem and dangling roots back to Richie. "You can wear these, if you want."

"Uh," Richie began, but then Rachel's voice called their names from upstairs.

"Time to go," Connor ordered, and Richie tossed the stem in the trash and trotted up the flight of stairs. Connor and Duncan followed. "Go on ahead," Connor said to Duncan when they reached the hallway, where Rachel was standing by the door. Duncan kissed Rachel on the cheek and followed Richie into the loft. Connor quickly pulled the daisy from his lapel and stuck the wretched flower in his coat pocket.

Rachel stared after them then turned to Connor with a bemused look. "Why is Duncan wearing a daisy?" she asked. "I've got the boutonnieres right here."

"I know," Connor said and shrugged. "Duncan said he liked daisies." Connor changed the subject. "You look beautiful," he said, stepping back to admire her dress of silk champagne striped with bronze, then walking around her to get the full view. "Stunning."

"Thank you," she said, preening a little. "You're quite the fashion plate yourself." She walked around him and clucked in some dismay. "Though I had always hoped to see you in top hat and tails."

"Not today," Connor answered with some relief. Alex had been fine with a suit-and-tie wedding, and that was fine by him. "Is Ben here?" he asked.

"Yes, about fifteen minutes ago, and he brought his date, Natalie," Rachel replied. "I think it's nice you and Alex had at least one friend in common to invite."

"You're here."

"I'm family," she said dismissively, but Connor knew she was pleased. "I know you and Alex have been busy," she said as she turned to pick up the small white box sitting on the table in the corner, "and you're moving anyway, but it helps for a couple to have friends."

"We'll work on it when we get to Scotland," he promised. "Any other sage advice?"

Rachel smiled. "Don't keep a woman waiting on her wedding day." She opened the box. "But ... there's only one boutonniere here," she said in surprise. "Richie promised me he'd get them both."

"Richie," Connor repeated, savoring the name.

"Well, he's probably holding it for Duncan," Rachel concluded cheerfully.

"No doubt," Connor agreed, already planning his revenge on the pair.

Rachel took out the cream-colored rose with its darker companions of purple heather and green rosemary and pinned it to his lapel. "I'm so glad you found someone again, Connor," she said as she smoothed his collar and straightened his tie, then patted down an errant lock of hair, those little caring touches of hers that Connor knew so well.

"You inspired me," Connor said simply, and it was true. No matter what had happened in her life, Rachel had always looked for someone to love, and she always found what she was looking for. "You made me a romantic again."

"I think Brenda and Alex had something to do with that, too," Rachel said, smiling.

"Yes," Connor agreed. "But you were first." He took her hands in his and brought them to his lips, held them as he looked into her eyes. "I will always love you, Rachel," he promised. "Always."

"I know," Rachel said, and that, too, was simple between them, though it hadn't always been. "I love you too, Connor. Always." She stepped forward and kissed him, first one cheek, then the other. Connor pulled her to him and held her close, resting his cheek against the softness of her hair, and they stood there for a moment before Rachel pulled away.

"Time for you to get married," she said, and - finally - it was. "Now, you and Duncan are going to wait near the dining-room table," she reminded him. "Alex and her mother will come down the staircase, and then the four of you will walk toward Sean in the seating area, meeting in front of the windows."

"I know," Connor said. The details of the wedding had been discussed in exhaustive detail, over and over again. But first--  "Would you take this up to Alex?" he asked, handing Rachel the slim wooden box from his pocket. The daisy was stuck under the envelope he had fastened to the top with a ribbon, and he peeled the flower loose then idly started pulling off the petals - she loves me, she love me not, she loves me, she loves me not-

Rachel laid her hand on his, stilling his anxious fingers. "She loves you," Rachel said quietly, and she took both the mutilated flower and the box. "Yes, I'll take it to her. You go on in." Rachel went into the loft and up the stairs. Connor took a deep breath, straightened his tie, and walked through the open door.

* * *

**The Bride - Something Blue**

* * *

Alex gave her appearance one last check in the bathroom mirror. Slip not showing, no runs in the stockings, hair neat, makeup fixed, flowers still unwilted, eyes bright...and stomach fluttering and hands atremble - just like every other bride. "You wanted a real wedding," she told her reflection, and it smiled back at her bravely. Alex waved goodbye.

"I'm ready," she told her mother in the bedroom.

"Not quite," said Rachel, peeking around the door, and she held out a slim wooden case with an envelope on it, tied there with an old-fashioned silk ribbon, not stuck on with tape. "Connor asked me to give you this."

Alex took the case from her and sat on the edge of the bed to read. The writing on the envelope was in Connor's hand, neat and small and controlled, and it was addressed to "Mrs. MacLeod." Alex read that three times before untying the blue ribbon and taking out the note. "I was looking forward to putting this on you," she read, "but I'm told I must wait to see the bride. So I look forward to taking it off - tonight." It was signed simply with "I love you" and his name.

"Open it!" her mother urged, and Rachel was waiting, too. Alex undid the catch on the polished rosewood box and lifted the lid, then sat staring at what she saw. "Oh, Alex," her mother breathed. "Oh, my."

"Oh, good," Rachel said in satisfaction. "He's been looking for that all summer."

Alex let out her breath in a shaky laugh. "So much for wearing pearls." She lifted out the sapphire pendant on its chain of gold, a teardrop of winter sky captured by the sun. "Well, this certainly takes care of something new and something blue."

"And something old," Rachel added. "That stone is from the Empire period."

"Napoleon?" asked Mom incredulously, and she breathed "Oh, my" again at Rachel's nod. Alex almost dropped the necklace.

"Do you have something borrowed?" Rachel asked. "Might as well complete that rhyme."

Alex nodded and pointed to her earrings, small swirls of gold. "These are Lara's."

"Here, Alex," said Mom, practical again. "Let me help you put the sapphire on."

Alex set the box on top of the bedside table and took off her pearl necklace. She turned around so her mother could fasten the clasp. The stone lay cool and heavy against her skin, just above her breasts. Alex took a deep breath and picked up her bouquet of cream-colored roses and long sprays of heather and greens. Then she took another deep breath, hoping her phone call that morning had worked. "Is everybody here?" she asked.

"The florists have come and gone, the room is lovely, and Mitzi has the caterers and musicians all arrayed," Rachel answered.

"Good," Alex said, not wanting to confess she hadn't even given that a thought. Not in the last fifteen minutes anyway. "Good. And the guests?"

"The family's all here, of course," Mom said. "And that nice Dr. Burns made it in from France this morning. But of course you saw him."

"Ben's here, with his date," Rachel supplied.

"Oh, right. Natalie," Alex said. Ben had never mentioned a girl even once this summer, when he had been training Alex in hand-to-hand combat. "I'm looking forward to meeting her."

"And your friend Tommy arrived about five minutes ago," Rachel finished.

This time, Alex let the air out. "Good," she said, and the sense of happy relief that flooded her carried away the butterflies that had been fluttering inside her all afternoon. But her hands were still trembling. Oh, well.

"I'm ready," Alex said cheerfully, heading for the door. "Let's go!"

"Um, Alex?" Mom called after her. "Your shoes?"


	3. Vows

**The Matchmaker - The Wedding**

* * *

The wedding was, of course, perfect. The flowers and greens were lovely, the musicians started on cue, the photographer had enough film and the right kind of extension cords, and everyone was exactly where they were supposed to be. And once the reception started, Rachel knew, the cakes would be magnificent, the food delicious, and the drink plentiful. Mitzi knew her business well.

And the bride and the groom... Mitzi hadn't had anything to do with arranging that pairing, but Rachel certainly had, and she permitted herself a well-deserved and well-satisfied sigh as Connor slid the ring onto Alex's finger, with John and Duncan standing at his side.

Finally. The MacLeods were becoming a family again. Oh, Connor and Duncan could manage on their own, but it wasn't good for them, not decade after decade, and ten-year-old John definitely needed more. So did Richie. Alex would be good for them all.

As Tessa would have been.

She would have liked Alex, Rachel thought. Those two would have been quite the pair, each of them blonde, beautiful, intelligent, well-traveled...and each married to a man who lived with a sword. Oh, the stories they would have had to share!

But it would never be. Almost a year it had been, Rachel realized, since Tessa had died. Duncan seemed to be coping, though he was quieter now than Rachel ever remembered him, and darker...more like Connor used to be.

Rachel took out her handkerchief and dabbed away tears. Margaret was doing the same as she stood by Alex and watched her place a wedding ring on Connor's hand. Lara and Natalie were both teary-eyed and smiling, too, although Ben and Richie (confirmed bachelors still, apparently) had a bit of a wary look about the eyes. Alex's young nephew, Jimmy, was engrossed in playing with his tie, but John was watching solemnly, and Alex's niece, Elaine (who at eleven was becoming interested in such things), was watching carefully, too. Pete looked very proud of his younger sister, and Duncan was, as always, solidly at Connor's side.

Alex's friend Tommy, however, was standing half-hidden behind the grand piano, scowling darkly at the back of Connor's head, even though he had returned Alex's welcoming wave and smile as she had come down the stairs. "Tommy doesn't trust Connor," Alex had explained a month ago. "He says Connor lies. And he says he has 'killer eyes'."

Tommy was quite right. But Rachel had no time to worry about that, not now.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife," Sean proclaimed, and he placed Connor and Alex's hands together. Then he stepped away, and the newly-married couple was silhouetted against the window, hand in hand, her face upturned to his, his head slightly bent, with the late afternoon sun lightening Connor's hair to gold and setting the roses in Alex's hair aglow. On the windows behind them, garlands of greens and flowers framed the skyline of New York, with the Twin Towers rising above it all. Rachel sighed again with satisfaction and was pleased to hear the clicks of the camera behind her as the photographer climbed the stairs for a better view.

Alex and Connor stood staring at each other until Duncan hissed in a stage whisper loud enough to be heard in the kitchen at the far end of the room, "Hey, Connor! You're supposed to kiss the bride!"

Connor completely ignored him, though Alex and Sean smiled, and John, Richie, and Ben laughed out loud. Finally, Connor did move, lifting Alex's hands in his and then kissing, not her lips, but her wedding ring, all the while looking into her eyes. He murmured something, too quiet for anyone but Alex to hear, and by now all the women - including Alex - had tears in their eyes again.

Then Alex stepped forward and kissed him, soundly and well, until everyone in the room, led by Duncan, erupted in cheers. The musicians started fiddling, people started talking, and the wedding was finally done.

Rachel closed her eyes for a brief prayer of thanksgiving. When she opened them, Mitzi was at her side. "Your boy's quite the romantic," Mitzi observed, then added with a smile, "It must run in the family." She kissed Rachel swiftly on the cheek and then whirled off to the kitchen to supervise the food and wine.

"Yes," Rachel murmured, watching as Connor as he stood, laughing, one arm around his son and his gaze never straying far from his new wife, surrounded by his family and friends. "And he's a poet, too."

After dinner (a formal affair for the twelve adults at the dining-room table, since John had asked weeks ago if he and Elaine and Jimmy could eat at their own table up on the balcony and have their food sent up in a basket - as long as they were called back down in time for cake - and Mitzi had promptly said, "Of course!") came the toasting (started by Duncan, added to by Sean, Pete, and Margaret, and continued for quite some time with enthusiasm by Richie and Lara), and then the cutting of the cakes. The children stopped their spirited discussion about the relative merits of the fantasy worlds of Narnia vs. Star Wars and appeared quickly on the stairs.

"Are you going to use a sword, Aunt Alex?" Jimmy asked as Connor and Alex approached the table that held a two-tier white wedding cake and an impressive block of chocolate.

"I think that's only a military tradition, Jimmy," Lara said. "I was at an Army wedding once, and he used his sword on the cake." She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "After the best man had smacked the bride on the backside with his."

"Don't even think it," Alex said to Duncan, and he backed away, hands up in mute protestation of innocence. "Or you," she said, turning to Richie, and he too stepped back, though Rachel didn't trust the gleam in his eyes.

"I'd listen to her if I were you," Ben said to Richie. "She can be deadly."

"I think a sword would be cool," John said, hanging over the railing to watch the proceedings below.

"Makes the blade sticky," his father replied.

"Do you have a sword, Connor?" Pete wanted to know.

"I've collected a few, over the years. Comes with the job." He gave the room a bland smile before he picked up the knife. "Shall we?" Connor asked his bride, and he and Alex cut the cakes together then neatly fed each other.

"Oh, come on! Mash it!" Richie encouraged.

"Like Ben said," Connor replied after swallowing his mouthful of cake, "she can be deadly." Alex said nothing, only sliced off another piece of cake with a swift, sure motion of the knife.

Richie grinned. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Ben said. "I trained her."

"So did I," Connor added, and one look at the grin on his face wiped the grin from Richie's.

Alex had placed two large pieces - one chocolate, one lemon - on a plate. "Richie?" she offered, holding it out to him with a demure smile, and he gave her a mock cringing salute before taking it and retiring to the table to eat.

"John?" she asked next, and everyone gathered around as she and Connor sliced away.

The presents were opened after the dancing (the Hokey Pokey had been the most fun), and then Alex distributed flowers from her bouquet to the women in the room. "It's silly to toss it," Alex had said to Rachel a few weeks ago. "There will only be Lara, Mom, Elaine, Natalie, and you. Lara's married, Mom won't want to chase after it, Elaine's too young, and you-"

"-won't want to go chasing after it, either," Rachel had finished. "That would leave only Natalie. I agree; handing out flowers is a lovely idea." So Alex went around the room, handing each woman a rose with sprigs of heather and rosemary in a crystal vase, and then she gave John and Jimmy letter openers (shaped like swords, of course) and engraved with the day's date.

"Cool!" both boys said and immediately started fencing with each other.

Connor took his time about removing Alex's garter, prompting much helpful advice from Duncan, Richie, and Ben. With five bachelors present and only one garter, there was no question about following that tradition. Connor shot the garter backwards over his shoulder- "Just like a rubber band!" John exclaimed - and Sean was the one to catch it, much to his surprise. Tommy, Rachel noticed, hadn't even lifted his hands. Nor had he brought a present.

But at least he had come. He had seemed to enjoy his conversations with Duncan and Sean at dinner, he'd danced with Alex and with her mother, and he'd even shaken Connor's hand.

"I think meeting Connor's friends has helped," Alex had said quietly to Rachel during a lull in the dancing. "I think Tommy's realizing Connor's OK. So at least that's over." Then Duncan had come to claim a dance with the bride, and Connor had come to claim a dance with Rachel, and the party had gone on.

But now it was winding down, and it was time for the bride and the groom to leave. Rachel tapped Alex on the arm. "Did you want to change before you leave for the hotel?"

"No," said Alex. "I'll go like this." She leaned nearer to confide: "Connor said he wanted to undo all these buttons himself."

"I'm sure," Rachel murmured. It had taken Margaret five minutes to fasten them all. Connor would either be much faster or much slower. Rachel was betting on slower.

"I'll go tell Connor we should get ready," Alex said.

"And I'll tell Mitzi to prepare the final toast." But as Rachel started to walk toward the kitchen, the doorbell rang. The security camera revealed a thin man in a badly-fitting suit and three uniformed policemen. Rachel swore silently. The doorbell rang again.

"Who is it?" Connor called, coming over.

"Police."

Connor's swearing was also silent, but Rachel knew exactly what he'd said.

And again, the doorbell rang. "I have a warrant," called a voice through the door.

Connor stabbed the intercom button. "Show it to the security camera." He peered at the writing on the monitor, then swore out loud. By now, people were starting to notice, and Alex and Duncan were coming over. Connor's slow exhalation of breath was a readying for battle, not a sigh. "Let 'em in," he ordered, and Rachel opened the door.

"Lieutenant Stenn!" Alex said in surprise as the badly-dressed man came into the room, trailing the scent of stale cigarettes. He needed a shave. Two of the three policemen came in and fanned out along the wall; the last one stood near the door.

"Are those really cops?" Jimmy asked from his perch on the balcony, and his sister hissed, "Yes. Now be quiet." John was standing rigid halfway down the stairs.

"Show me the warrant," Connor said, and one of the policemen held it out to him.

While Connor was reading, Lieutenant Stenn looked over the room, his gaze traveling from the remains of the cakes on the table to the pile of opened presents, taking in the flowers and greenery around the room. Rachel was very glad now that she had moved the rack of swords that usually stood at the bottom of the stairs into Connor's trophy room. The last thing they needed was a collection of lethal weapons in plain sight.

The lieutenant's gaze finally came to rest on Alex in her bridal gown. "Looks like somebody just got married." He shook his head with a look of mingled pity and annoyance. "You don't take advice very well, do you, Ms. Johnson?"

"It's Mrs. MacLeod now," Alex replied, walking over to Connor and laying her hand on his arm. He laid his hand over hers, but briefly, then they both stepped a little apart. Preparing for action, Rachel thought. Separating the targets. Warrior training went deep. Duncan had taken up a stance on the other side of the door, and Ben was standing at the ready under the stairs. Richie was near the piano, his eyes alert.

"Is it?" Lieutenant Stenn asked Alex skeptically. "You sure it's not Mrs. Nash?" He stood directly in front of her. "Or maybe it should be Mrs. Warrington. Or maybe...Mrs. Smith? Or Mrs. Jones." He turned to Connor. "Just how many names have you had, Nash?"

"I've been called a lot of things," Connor replied easily. Richie tried to turn his snort of laughter into a cough, while Duncan grinned openly. John was grinning too.

Margaret, on the other hand, was looking worried. Sean took her by the arm and led her to the couch, then sat close by her side. Rachel glanced around the room. The three children were still on the stairs, and Pete, Lara, and Natalie were all seated at the dining-room table, just starting to realize what was going on. The caterers were peeking out from behind the carved wooden screen that shielded the kitchen from view, while Mitzi was in front of it, watching everything. For once, she seemed taken aback by an occurrence at a wedding. Tommy was standing next to the table of presents with one of those tiny, delicious cream puffs half-eaten and totally forgotten in his hand.

Thank goodness the musicians had already gone home.

The lieutenant was ignoring them all. "And now you're calling yourself 'MacLeod,'" he said to Connor.

"It's my legal name."

"Yeah? Since when?" He stepped closer. "Did you change it before Brenda died? Or after?"

Rachel had seen that tightness in Connor's jaw before, but only rarely. He usually hid his rage from her. "Before."

"Right," Lieutenant Stenn drawled. "Another Mrs. MacLeod." He looked back at Alex. "Maybe you should call yourself Mrs. Bluebeard." Her only answer was a steady stare, and he went back to baiting Connor. "You got papers to prove this name change?"

"They're in a safe deposit box. At my bank."

"Of course they are. And here it is Sunday night. Bank's closed. What's your first name now, Nash? Donald? Darrin?" He sniffed and scratched at his eyebrow, his lips curling up in what seemed meant to be a grin. "Dumbo?"

"Connor."

"Uh-huh. Then who's Duncan MacLeod?"

"I am," Duncan said firmly, stepping forward.

Lieutenant Stenn looked from one to the other. "Two of you, with the same last name. So this is...what? A crime family?"

"Oh yeah right," Richie said with disgusted sarcasm. "They're the Scottish mafia."

"Richie…," Duncan warned, as Lieutenant Stenn swung around to stare at the boy.

"Sorry, Mac, I'm just … I mean, come on! This is crazy."

"What's crazy," Lieutenant Stenn said, stalking over to where Richie stood, "is a psycho who likes to chop people's heads off. With a sword. Can you imagine?"

Abruptly, all traces of humor dropped away, and Richie didn't look young anymore. He folded his arms across his chest. "No."

"No," Lieutenant Stenn repeated, sounding dubious. His pale blue eyes scanned Richie. "What's your name?"

"Ryan."

"Ryan what?"

"Oh no, Officer," Richie said, with such a show of exaggerated politeness and smart-assed innocence that Rachel closed her eyes in exasperation. "You've got it all wrong. Ryan's my last name."

"Don't fuck with me, punk," Stenn snapped, but Rachel suspected Richie would have kept doing just that if the expressions on Duncan and Connor's faces hadn't said the same.

"The name's Richard Ryan," Richie finally said, gritting his teeth.

"And you can call me Lieutenant," Stenn said in return, writing down Richie's name in a small notebook. Then he went around the room and took the guests' names while a policeman went to the kitchen to talk to Mitzi and her staff. The other two policemen stood staring at Connor the entire time.

Stenn ended up back in front of Connor, and he made a show of asking Connor twice how to spell "MacLeod" before he put his book away. He sniffed again and this time wiped at his nose. "How the hell did you come up with a name like that?"

"I wanted to get in touch with my Highland roots."

"Oh, you'll get 'in touch' tonight," Lieutenant Stenn said with a nasty grin. "But not with your new wife. And not with your Highland roots." He turned to one of the policemen and ordered, "Cuff him."

"Hey, wait a minute," Duncan protested, coming forward as Connor stepped in front of Alex, pushing her gently behind him. The first policeman took out a set of handcuffs, and the other two took out guns. Duncan glanced at the uniforms and the revolvers, then addressed Stenn more quietly, "You can't--"

"I can," Stenn interrupted, snatching the warrant from the other policeman and waving it in Duncan's face. "I have a warrant to arrest Russell Nash, otherwise known as Connor MacLeod, for the murder of James Earken two days ago." He turned back to Connor and smiled again. "Cause of death?" He drew out each syllable almost lovingly: "De-cap-i-ta-tion."

"Oh, but this is obviously a horrible mistake!" Margaret exclaimed, standing up. "No one could possibly imagine that Connor would ever cut off someone's head." She looked around the room, seeking agreement, but no one met her gaze.

"Mom, please," Alex murmured, looking rather pale.

"I'm certain Connor didn't kill Mr. Earken," Rachel said to Margaret reassuringly. And she was certain; she'd seen Connor on Friday morning and again on Saturday. She would have known if Connor had taken a head in that time.

"Decapitation," Stenn repeated, his gloating eyes only for Connor. "Just like nine years ago at Madison Square Garden, Nash. Just like in January, at the hospital."

On the other hand, Rachel was equally certain that Connor had taken those heads. She knew Lieutenant Stenn was only doing his job, and she knew he was quite right to suspect Connor, but she didn't care for the lieutenant's manner, and she didn't think he should be taking quite this much pleasure in his job. And she really didn't appreciate him coming here now. Tonight, of all nights, when she had finally gotten Connor married! Rachel permitted herself another silent bout of swearing.

Connor shrugged. "I never knew any James Earken."

"Sure you didn't," Stenn agreed. "Like you didn't know Iman Fasil. Like you didn't know Yung Dol Kim or Victor Kruger or Hugh O'Neill."

"You got nothing," Connor stated.

"Wrong, Nash. Dead wrong. I got your ass."

Connor shook his head, almost in pity. "This is a mistake, Lieutenant." For answer, Stenn again motioned the policeman with the handcuffs forward. Connor shrugged and held out his hands. "Go ahead, Officer. Do your duty. I'm always happy to cooperate with the police. Isn't that right, Duncan?"

"Absolutely," Duncan lied loyally for his kinsman. "MacLeods are known for upholding the law."

Rachel was relieved that Connor had chosen to treat this as a mistake and play along. Considering that his in-laws were watching and there were nearly twenty people in the room and the police had their guns out, resisting arrest could be deadly - for someone, anyway.

"Not in front," Stenn reminded the policeman who was lifting Connor's hand. "Cuff him in back." Connor stood passively while the handcuffs were put on.

"No!" That was John, careening down the stairs. He thudded to a stop in front of Stenn. "You can't take my dad!"

Stenn squatted down so that his eyes were at the same level as John's. "Yes," he said, and his smile was like a dead opossum's. "I can."

At ten, John had yet to learn restraint, and really, Rachel couldn't blame him. Stenn was being odious. Even so, Rachel didn't see it coming, and obviously, neither did Stenn.

John's punch caught Stenn in the sternum and knocked him flat on his backside. John's karate teachers would have been impressed with his speed and his power, though his stance could have been a bit more balanced. It was good John hadn't punched him in the face; Stenn might have ended up with a broken nose - certainly a bloody one - and that would have been quite a mess, in more ways than one.

Duncan started towards John, but Alex was closer; she stopped John before he could go after Stenn again. "John, no," she said urgently, grabbing his shoulders and holding him back. "No."

"Hey," Connor said softly, smiling at him. "It's all right, slugger. Don't worry. This is just an honest mistake. I'll be home soon." He winked at him, and Rachel blinked back tears when John bravely winked back.

Stenn had gotten to his feet, and he was rubbing his chest where John had hit him. He looked at the boy with a calculating gaze. "Quite the little piss ant you got there, Nash."

"Our name is MacLeod," Connor said evenly, while John glared up at the lieutenant.

"Right, Nash. Right." Stenn folded the warrant neatly in thirds and tucked it away.

"Rachel," Connor said urgently, one eyebrow raised, and Rachel nodded and replied, "I'll call Porasin," knowing all too well what needed to be done.

"Alex...," he said next, not as sure now, for this was new, but she stepped forward and kissed him, confidently, thoroughly, the way a wife kisses her husband.

She smiled bravely and said, "I'll be here when you come home. John and I will be waiting for you."

He smiled back at her, and Rachel smiled too, to see the love between them. He turned finally to his clansman. "Duncan."

"Connor," came the reply, and as always, that was all either of them needed to say.

"Sorry, everybody!" Connor called to the room at large. "You'll have to finish the party without me."

"We'll throw the rice at you when you get back!" Richie answered, but no one else was in the mood for jesting.

"Get him out of here," Stenn ordered, and the police took Connor away. Stenn, however, started wandering around the loft. Duncan - soon joined by Richie - made it their business to dog Stenn's every stride.

"Looking for something, Lieutenant?" Duncan asked pointedly. Stenn shrugged and kept wandering. Duncan stepped in front of him, feet planted and eyes cold. "Got a search warrant?"

Stenn stopped, took one last look around the room, and headed for the door. Richie opened it for him and made a mocking bow to usher him by, but Stenn paused halfway through the door. "Hey, Maclure," he called, and Tommy looked up in surprise. Stenn nodded to him and said, "Good job," before he walked out and finally left them alone.

Tommy's mouth was hanging open as everyone turned to stare at him. He only closed it when Richie slammed the door.

"'Good job'?" Alex repeated, biting off each word, and once again Rachel was glad that she had hidden all the swords.

* * *

**The Best Man - The Deceiving Line**

* * *

Usually, Duncan thought to himself as he slowly removed the boutonniere from his lapel, the only mess you had to clean up after a wedding was in the kitchen.

Not this time. "Let's all sit down," he said, taking over as host, as Connor expected him to.

Alex wasn't listening. "'Good job'?" she said again to Tommy. "What the-"

"Alex," Duncan interrupted, touching her lightly on the shoulder.

"What?" she snapped, not looking at him.

"Let's sit down first," he said. "Ok? Then we'll figure this out. Everybody has questions." That finally got through to her, and she nodded abruptly and sat at the head of the dining-room table. "Mitzi," Duncan said next, "can we have something to drink?"

"Of course," she said and motioned to the caterers, who quickly asked everyone what they would like. Mitzi remained near the screen, where she could listen to every word. Duncan didn't mind; it would make things easier for Rachel later on. And the caterers should hear the explanation too, to minimize the stories they would undoubtedly tell.

"I have to call Connor's lawyer," Rachel said, heading for the stairs. "I'll be right back."

"Connor has a lawyer?" Pete said in surprise.

"It's the same law firm that Rachel's family has been using for decades," Duncan quickly explained. "Connor asked them to handle his business while he was out of the country, and he's still keeping them on retainer."

"Oh," Pete said blankly.

His wife nudged him in the ribs. "Lifestyles of the rich and famous, baby. All millionaires have lawyers on retainer. You do, don't you, Duncan?"

Apparently, Alex wasn't the only forthright one in the family. "Yes," Duncan said. "Two, actually. One in Paris, one in Seacouver. I travel a lot," he added in explanation.

"Oh," Pete said again, and then Lara tugged on his arm and they joined everyone else at the table. Except for Tommy, who was clearly avoiding getting too close to Alex and was standing with his arms crossed at the bottom of the stairs.

Rachel returned a few moments later, and it was Alex's mother who asked the question that was on everyone's mind: "What is going on?"

"About nine years ago," Duncan began, earning a grateful look from Rachel and an approving nod from Sean, "there was a murder at Madison Square Gardens - a beheading. Connor was there for a sports event, and the police picked him up for questioning. But that was all," Duncan emphasized. "They let him go."

"It was just 'wrong place, wrong time'?" put in Richie.

"Yeah," agreed Duncan. Wrong place, wrong time in a lot of ways.

"I know about that." Richie shook his head. "Cops."

"That mean cop said a bad word," Jimmy piped up.

"He certainly did," agreed his grandmother, then turned to Alex. "Honey, why did that police officer keep calling Connor 'Nash'?"

"Connor had a different name before, Mom," Alex said. "Years ago."

"Why'd he change it?" Pete asked.

"As he said," Rachel explained calmly, "he'd been researching his Scottish ancestry, and after he and Brenda decided to move to Scotland, he changed his name to MacLeod. Brenda liked that; she said it was only fair that both of them would have to deal with all the name-changing paperwork, instead of only her."

That brought smiles from all the married women in the group.

"What happened to Brenda?" That was Tommy, coming in for the attack and moving to stand at the edge of the circle. Even Alex's glare down the sixteen-foot length of the polished mahogany table didn't deter him. "How did she die?"

"A car accident," Rachel said softly. "A year after they were married."

"Oh," said Natalie, a small sound of sympathy.

"They had been about to adopt John," Rachel said, and she reached out and fondly ruffled the boy's hair, who was leaning against her chair. "After the funeral, Connor brought him home."

"Lieutenant Stenn was a friend of Brenda's," Alex said, picking up the tale. "He never believed Connor was innocent of that murder at Madison Square Garden - even though there was absolutely no evidence against him-and he still blames Connor for Brenda's death. As soon as Connor came back to New York in January, Stenn started hounding him."

"That other beheading he mentioned?" Ben asked. "In the hospital?"

"Yes," Alex said. "It happened about the same time, I guess."

Duncan was quite sure of it.

"He said a couple of other names, too," Lara said. "Three or four. That's a lot of beheadings."

Ben shrugged. "This is New York."

"I've never heard of those other people before tonight," Alex said.

Duncan had. But Connor had killed only two of them.

"I do know there was no evidence against Connor for the murder at the hospital, either," Alex went on. "But that didn't matter to Stenn. He was convinced Connor was guilty, and he bothered Connor for weeks."

The caterers brought over the drinks, and Duncan lifted his beer in a silent toast to the women in Connor's life. Both of them knew when to lie, and they did it very well. He wondered if Rachel had been giving Alex some pointers, or if she came by it naturally.

Alex asked her mother to pass her the cream then added it slowly to her coffee and stirred, staring into her cup. "We hadn't heard from Stenn for months. We thought he'd finally decided to leave Connor alone." She lifted her head and stared straight at Tommy. "Until tonight."

Duncan had to give Tommy credit; he didn't flinch, even with everyone staring at him, even under Alex's lethal glare.

"I've never seen Stenn before in my life," Tommy said, now on the defensive. "I had no idea he was coming. The only person I know in the police department is a civilian, and she works in records." He wet his lips before admitting, "A couple of weeks ago, I asked her to check out Connor."

"Why?" interrupted Ben, clearly affronted at this insult to his friend.

"I just... I had some questions, and I didn't think he was giving me straight answers."

"He's a private kind of guy," Ben said with a shrug. "That's all."

Tommy started to respond but then gave up on Ben and turned to Alex. "I was worried about you," he said softly, his words an explanation and an apology combined.

Her glare shifted to a look of irritation and exasperation, then they all waited while she quite obviously counted to ten. "OK," she finally told him, but Duncan knew she wasn't finished with Tommy yet.

"That's all you did?" Duncan asked him. "Just asked your friend to check records?"

"What? Yeah," Tommy said, but Duncan had heard the pause between those two words. He'd ask Tommy later, when Alex wasn't around.

"And what did your friend find?" Ben asked pointedly.

"Nothing," Tommy admitted, and Duncan watched as Alex's family relaxed a little in their chairs. "I guess Stenn heard about it somehow," Tommy said with a helpless shrug.

"It probably has something to do with you getting picked up last night," Richie said to Duncan. "Stenn knew your name."

"What?" Alex said, and now Duncan knew what it felt like to have everyone staring at him. "You were what?"

"Mistaken identity," Duncan explained briefly. "They let me go in a couple of hours."

"I'm sorry," Margaret said, obviously still flustered, "but...you were picked up yesterday and now Connor's been arrested? This just isn't normal."

"You're right," Ben said. "This is New York."

"Are you saying people get arrested all the time?" she demanded. "Innocent people?"

"Of course not," Sean said soothingly. "But people do make mistakes. And in a city, police sometimes err on the side of caution."

"I wasn't arrested, Mrs. Johnson," Duncan said. "The police just had to make sure I wasn't the guy they were looking for. Then they let me go."

"Plus, we weren't exactly in the best part of town last night," Richie put in. "Cops always assume the worst."

"Tell me about it," Ben said. "The cops have picked me up, and all I was doing was standing there." He made a face as he reached for his beer. "And being black."

"That never helps," Richie agreed.

"Like with those two guys the cops thought were purse snatchers," Natalie said. "The cops shot at them and beat them up, then charged them with all kinds of stuff, only it turned out they hadn't done anything. A jury just gave them millions of dollars for wrongful arrest." She looked at Ben and added, "I read about it in the papers last month."

"They're not like the cops in a small town, Mom," Alex said.

"I can see that!" Margaret replied. "Sheriff Dyson is never that rude."

"Sometimes he is." Pete looked at his mother across the table. "Not to you, of course, or your friends, but he's harassed some of my buddies pretty good."

"Cops," Richie said in disgust, shaking his head.

"We need them," Sean said firmly. "Even if they make mistakes, even if they get rough sometimes because of the work they have to do, they're good people who care about the law, and we need them." He turned to Margaret. "This is just one of those mistakes. I'm sure they'll realize that soon, and then Connor will be home."

Duncan was relieved, but not surprised, to see Margaret calmly nodding. Sean had had centuries of practice to learn just what to say.

"So, you two aren't part of the Scottish mafia?" Lara asked Duncan. She sounded almost disappointed.

"Sorry, no," Duncan said, giving her a boyish grin and getting a flirtatious one back in return. "My only connection to Italy is cooking."

"And hours and hours of opera," Richie said under his breath. Duncan ignored him.

"I wonder what the murder weapon was," Ben said slowly, more to himself than to anyone at the table.

"What?" asked Pete.

"Hm?" He looked up. "Oh, just that, usually these days the murder weapon is a gun. To cut off someone's head, you'd need something like...well, a sword."

"Goodness," Alex said, getting to her feet and covering a yawn with her hand. "I'm so sorry, everyone. I'm afraid I'm just exhausted. It's been..."

"Yes, of course," Rachel murmured, standing up, and everyone else followed her lead. Ten minutes later, the guests were gone, the caterers had packed up and left (Mitzi would send a cleaning crew in the morning), John was upstairs getting ready for bed, and Margaret was standing at the head of the dining-room table, carefully taking the flowers out of Alex's hair.

Duncan and Richie quickly said goodnight and went after Tommy Maclure. "Man, I bet this isn't the wedding night Sir Lancelot had planned," Richie said as they ran down the stairs.

"I'll take that bet," Duncan answered

"Do you ever find out where they were going to go tonight?" Richie asked.

"Nope," Duncan answered. Connor, unsurprisingly, had covered his tracks well, and Rachel, of course, had never breathed a word. But the newlyweds weren't due to leave for Scotland until Tuesday evening; Duncan still had plenty of time left to harass his kinsman. It was a tradition, after all. And if Connor and Alex were at home tomorrow... Duncan grinned.

Richie opened the outside door, and they spotted Tommy at the far end of the alley. "Hey, Maclure!" Duncan called as he and Richie caught up to Alex's friend.

"What?" Tommy's response was way past tired and just short of surly. The sultry summer night was ripe with the scent of the garbage rotting in the dented green bin nearby.

"I was just wondering," Duncan began, keeping his tone conversational instead of confrontational, "in case something else happens with Lieutenant Stenn, I'd like to be prepared. You know?" He waited for Tommy to nod before he said, "What else did you tell the cops?"

"I didn't _tell_ them anything." Tommy ran a hand through his dark curly hair and sighed, his chagrin overcoming his irritation. "I asked. Before I went to my friend for help, I asked the cops to look into Connor."

"Why?" Richie wanted to know.

"I didn't trust him," Tommy said bluntly. "The guy shows up out of nowhere, and sweeps Alex off her feet. I've known her for six years, and she's never acted like that before. Next thing I know, she's lying to me. Then she wants me to meet him, so I do, and he lies to me. I ask her about it, and she lies to me some more. That is not a good sign."

"Like Ben said upstairs," Duncan told him, "Connor's a private person. Alex was just protecting his privacy."

"There's being private, and there's having something to hide," Tommy retorted. "I thought he had something to hide."

And he was absolutely right about that. But Duncan just nodded, encouraging Tommy to go on.

"Then Alex tells me she's quitting her job. She's moving out of the country. And what do I know about this guy, really? He's richer than God, yeah, but nobody on this street knows him, even though he told her he's lived here for years."

"He changed his name," Richie said.

"Yeah, well, I didn't know that. And I didn't know about his first wife, and I sure as hell didn't know about any beheadings, and I didn't know that cop had it in for him, because nobody told me a damned thing, OK? And unlike you guys, I'm not a MacMillionaire; I can't afford to hire a detective. So I went to the cops and asked for help. Not that I got any, they sent me away. I never even told them my name. Or Connor's either. Stenn didn't find out anything from me that time." Tommy sighed again. "That's why I didn't tell Alex about it tonight." He punched his fist against the trash bin, and the sound echoed dully between brick walls. "Shit." He shook his head again. "Tanishia said he didn't have a record, so I never thought anything like this would happen."

"OK," Duncan said, relieved to have cleared that up. But there was another problem. "Alex is your friend; why didn't you trust her to make a good decision?"

Even in the dim light from distant street lamps, Duncan could clearly see Tommy's look of total disdain. "Because people in love are fools."

"You know, Mac, he does have a point there," Richie said.

"Yeah," Duncan admitted. "He does." He'd proved it himself often enough.

"But that's not all," Tommy went on. "I know you two are cousins, but...that guy's dangerous."

"You're right," Duncan said. "He is. So am I. In fact, so's Richie. And so are Alex and Ben. And Rachel, too."

"Rachel?" Richie asked in surprise.

"She's a third-degree black-belt," Duncan told him. "Tommy, all of us have had training, but-"

"But he's used it," Tommy interrupted bluntly. "That look he gets sometimes..."

"He was a soldier," Duncan explained. As was he. In many times and in many wars.

"So he has killed people."

Duncan abandoned the nuances of spin. "Yes."

"But they were all bad," quipped Richie, quoting a line from the movie they had seen the week before, and even Tommy had to grin.

"Tommy," Duncan began, hoping to reassure Alex's friend, "I've known Connor almost my entire life. Yes, he has a temper. Yes, he can be dangerous. And sometimes, he gets drunk. But he's also loyal and dependable and a damned good friend, and I promise you, he will never hurt Alex, and he will protect her with his life."

"I trust him with mine," Richie said, and for once, he was totally serious.

"So do I," Duncan added.

Tommy looked back and forth between them then nodded. "OK. It's just...I was worried about her."

"I know," Duncan said. "That cop was right; you did a good job, looking out for her. I would have done the same."

"Thanks," Tommy said, standing a little straighter. "Tell Alex that, would you? I really don't want to find out what Ben and Connor have been teaching her this summer."

"I'll tell her," Duncan promised. "Good night."

"Damn," said Richie, as they headed back into Connor's building. "Talk about true lies."

"That's what our life is," Duncan told him. "Everyday, trying to hold onto truth, while we lie - everyday."

* * *

**The Bride - Her Wedding Night**

* * *

"Would you like me to unbutton your dress, Alex?" Mom asked when she was done taking the flowers from Alex's hair. A heap of wilting blossoms gleamed whitely against the table's dark wood. A few stray petals lay scattered on the floor. Little breadcrumbs marking the trail home.

"No," Alex said, standing up. "Thank you."

Mom hesitated, then said it anyway. "It may be a while. Before he comes home." Behind her, the lights of the city spread out across the sky.

Alex had watched those lights many times from this room, encircled by Connor's arms. "I know. I'll wait." She had been waiting a long time for him.

Mom hesitated again, then smiled a little and nodded. They hugged goodnight, and she went up the stairs to the guest bedroom at the end of the hall. Alex gathered the flowers and stood for a moment, holding them in her hands. No flower girl at this wedding. No bridesmaids, no ushers, no quarreling over an enormous guest list, no frantic rushing about. Alex had wanted their wedding to be simple, elegant, and fun.

And it had been. Until the cops had come and taken her husband away.

"Damn it," she swore, over and over again, until the scent of crushed rose petals drifted from between her hands.

Alex carried them to the kitchen and spread them out carefully on a tray. After they had dried, she would make them into sachets, along with the rosemary and heather. She could tie them with the blue silk ribbon Connor had used for his gift to her. She would hang them in the closets here and in their new house in Scotland (once they'd found one), and everything would be just fine.

Once her husband was home.

Alex locked all the doors, turned off the lights, and went up the stairs. After she had brushed her hair and washed her face, she went to say goodnight to John. He was sitting up in bed, his arms around his knees, and staring at the city lights outside. Alex flipped on the baseball-shaped night-light on the wall and drew the heavy curtains. The glow of the city still slid into the corners of the room, but that was OK. John didn't like sleeping in the dark.

Not since Kane.

"I don't like cops," John said. One side of his face was dimly lit from beneath by the night-light, the other side of his face was in shadow. He looked very small.

The skirt of Alex's wedding gown rustled and slid softly against her skin as she sat on the edge of the bed. "All cops?"

"Maybe not all," he agreed after a moment. "Dr. Sean was right, I guess. We need 'em. But that one cop, that Stenn guy, no."

"I don't like him either," she confessed, and they shared a smile.

"When's Dad coming home?" John asked next.

Alex wasn't sure which was harder: trying to smile or trying not to cry. "I don't know, John. Tomorrow, probably, after they clear it all up. It's hard to get things done in the middle of the night."

"Uncle Dunc was at the police station for hours and hours. And he hadn't even done anything."

"Your dad hasn't done anything, either," she said firmly.

In the dim light, John's eyes was as velvet and fathomless as a country night sky. "Not this time."

"John-"

"He's killed people. He killed Kane."

"Yes," she said evenly. "To protect you. That's allowed, to kill people if they're trying to kill you, or your family. You know that."

"Yeah," he agreed. "But the cops don't like it. And we can't even tell them anything, because of the Immortal stuff."

"That's right."

"But then the cops start thinking Dad is the bad guy!" he burst out. "And it's the other guy! That's not fair."

"You're right," Alex agreed, deciding to ask Sean to talk to John before going back to France.

John was tracing the baseball stitching pattern on his sheet with his finger. He completed an entire circle before he looked up to say, "Dad's like a secret agent, right? Like in that movie Dad and I saw with Richie and Uncle Dunc when the guy couldn't tell anybody - not even his wife - what he was doing? Or like Superman and Lois Lane."

"Yes," Alex agreed, smiling now. She had, on occasion, thought of Connor as a superman, but she'd never thought of herself as Lois Lane. "Like that."

"Except Dad told you, so you know."

"Yes, he did. And he told you."

"And we have to keep his secret. No matter what."

"No matter what," she agreed.

"And we will," he said fiercely.

Alex nodded. Maybe she wouldn't have to ask Sean for help after all. She leaned over and kissed John on the forehead. "Goodnight, John."

"Goodnight," he said and lay down. "Alex?" he said, after she had made her way around the various projects and puzzles lying on the floor and was almost to the door.

"Yes?" she said, turning around.

He was halfway up, leaning back on his elbows. "Can I call you Mom now?"

Those tears were threatening again. Happy ones, though. "I'd like that," she said. "I'd like that a lot."

He grinned, his teeth showing white in the dimness. "OK." He flopped back down. "Goodnight, Mom," he called, as easily as if he'd been saying it for years.

She could only hope motherhood would come that naturally for her. "Goodnight, John," she said again and quietly shut the door. Then she leaned her back against it, closed her eyes, and let the tears flow.

When that was finished, she washed her face again and went back downstairs. She made tea then sat down at Connor's desk with their brand-new stationery at hand, and the phone near by. There were thank-you cards to be written, and she had nothing better to do.

Except wait for the phone to ring, and wait for her husband to come home.

* * *

**The Groom - His Wedding Night**

* * *

Connor had sometimes debated which was worse: competent cops or incompetent cops. The competent ones were more dangerous; the incompetent ones were more irritating. He didn't much like either kind. Especially in the middle of the night.

Especially in the middle of this night. He was supposed to be in bed with his wife, either blissfully asleep or even more blissfully awake, but he was most definitely not supposed to be spending his wedding night with the cops, getting dragged from the cop car to the holding cell to processing and then back to the holding cell again and then back to processing again.

All goddamned night long.

"I ran out of film that last time," said the photographer. "Bring 'em all back and let me take their pictures again."

"Have to redo the fingerprints," said the guy in processing. "That last batch got smeared."

At least the guy who did the full body search was competent. Connor really didn't want to have to go through that again.

Then the office computer went down, and everything ground to a halt. Nothing moved without paperwork. Connor remembered when getting "booked" required actual books-big, heavy ledgers with row after row of name, crime, place, and date, all recorded in flowing ink in a variety of hands. Now it was all typed in, clickety-clickety-click, anonymous, modern, efficient, and fast.

Except when the computers went down.

Around five in the morning, they finally took Connor to an interrogation room, one of those featureless rooms with the off-white walls pocked with tiny holes and a faded water stain on the ceiling. In Connor's experience, all interrogation rooms had water stains on the ceiling.

"I want my lawyer," Connor said then sat tight until Porasin came. That only took about ten minutes. Porasin had been in the building since midnight; Connor had heard the cops discussing the arrival of the legendary football player who'd played five great seasons before blowing out his knee and going back to school. Two cops had even gotten autographs.

When Porasin came into the interrogation room, he was shaking his head with what looked like pity. "I tried to hurry things up, but it's the Sunday night shift, and I think they're all new."

"Stenn's not new," Connor said. Stenn was no doubt enjoying this, biding his time.

Porasin nodded as he sat down on one of the gray metal chairs. It creaked under his weight. "And Stenn knows the rules. Legally, the police don't even have to arraign you for twenty-four hours, and you've only been here seven. You irritate these people, and this could drag on for a long time. So play nice. And keep quiet. You're paying me to do the talking, remember? Shut up and get your money's worth."

"Since you put it that way...," Connor said, but his amusement didn't last long. "Have you talked to Alex?"

"Twice: right when I got here and about an hour ago. She says John's asleep, and she's waiting for you to come home."

Home sounded wonderful. Alex sounded wonderful. Instead he was stuck here. Connor ran his hand through his hair, resisting the urge to pull some of it out.

Porasin looked Connor up and down, shook his head, then lifted his briefcase onto the table. The latches looked absurdly delicate beneath his enormous hands. "Here," he said, pulling out a comb.

Connor obligingly smoothed his hair back down. "You got a toothbrush in there?"

"Just a toothpick." Connor accepted that, too. "Better," Porasin said when Connor was done. "Except...put your tie back on."

Connor would have liked to argue with him, just for the fun of it, but it was a moot point. "They took it away."

"Oh. Right. Sorry." He shrugged. "That's OK. You looking fine." Then Porasin shook his head again and chuckled, a deep rumble.

"What?" Connor demanded.

"Usually, I'm better dressed than my clients. Course, usually they're not getting married and dressed in an Armani suit. And usually, they don't have this many problems on their wedding day. Your best man show up on time?"

"Yeah," Connor said. The wedding seemed a long time ago.

Porasin looked Connor straight in the eye. "They're holding you on a murder charge."

"I never met James Earken," Connor stated flatly.

Porasin looked at Connor a moment longer before he nodded. He took out a legal pad and a stylish black pen then pushed his briefcase to one side. He wrote a question and handed the pad to Connor. Connor replied, and then the pad went back and forth a few more times, both of them being careful to hold the pad so the messages couldn't be read by prying eyes. Porasin nodded again and put the legal pad back in his briefcase and shut it. Then they started discussing the upcoming football season and the possible effects of the new rules. Porasin was enthusiastic about moving the kick-off to the thirty-yard line; Connor was less than sanguine about the two-point conversion.

The clock on the wall read 5:58 before a cop finally decided to show. He was balding, heavyset, and dressed in a brown suit with a green tie. "Detective Jarbon," he said by way of introduction, then pulled out the chair across from Porasin and sat down. Jarbon started flipping through the papers on his clipboard.

Stenn came in at 6:04. "You look tired, Lieutenant," Connor said pleasantly when Stenn walked to the table. Unlike Connor, Stenn had had the chance to shave, but even so his eyes were bloodshot and he looked like hell. Stenn's glare looked like it could drill through five feet of ice on a Canadian lake in the dead of winter, but he said nothing, just sat down across from Connor. Stenn had coffee with him, and the scent of it caressed Connor's nose.

"Good morning," Porasin to everyone with a cheerful grin. At the same time, he stomped hard on Connor's foot, causing him to wheeze in sudden pain, then try to hide the sound behind a strangled cough because Stenn was looking on with avid amusement. Porasin, still cheerful, turned to Connor and mouthed the words: "Shut the fuck up."

Connor shut up.

Porasin began by vigorously protesting the delays his client had been subjected to. Possible lawsuits were not-so-subtly hinted at. Stenn and Jarbon looked bored, but Porasin seemed to be enjoying himself, and Connor's foot still hurt. He said nothing.

Jarbon nodded when Porasin was done, said perfunctorily, "We'll take note of your concerns," then flipped his papers back to page one. "Mr. Nash, you-"

A solid thump of a heavy fist on the table interrupted him. "My client's name," Porasin said with precise politeness, "is Connor MacLeod. I have the legal documents attesting to that fact right here." He patted his briefcase. "Would you like a copy?"

Jarbon glanced at Stenn, but he was still glaring at Connor. Jarbon shrugged. "Yeah." He took the paper, read it, made a small notation, and stuck it on his clipboard at the bottom of the pile. "Mr. MacLeod," he began again, "what was your relationship with James Earken of Rochester, New York?"

"Don't answer that," Porasin ordered, and Connor shut his mouth and moved his feet out of the way. "What charges are being brought against my client?"

"We're still gathering information at this point."

"There was a warrant issued for his arrest. What was the charge?"

"Murder."

"On what evidence?" Porasin asked next.

Jarbon referred to his notes. "An eye-witness identified him as leaving the scene of the crime."

"Identified?" Porasin gave Connor an exaggerated once-over. "This eye-witness was sure? It couldn't have been some other fellow of medium build, about six foot tall, light brown hair, and blue eyes?"

Stenn answered this time. "He was sure."

"How many mug shots did you show your eye-witness to get him to make that ID, Lieutenant?" Porasin asked. "Half a dozen? Or just the one?"

"Your client has been involved in murder cases like this before," Jarbon said.

"My client has been accused of being involved in murder cases before. He's never been convicted; he's never even been charged. He's innocent until proven guilty, and since you haven't proven a thing, he's innocent."

"Innocent my ass," Stenn growled. "Hey, Nash, how many people have you killed?"

"Don't answer that," Porasin ordered, but he needn't have bothered. Connor couldn't answer that question. He'd lost count a few centuries ago. "Let's get this over with," Porasin said. "Besides a spurious identification and your baseless suspicions, what else do you have?"

Jarbon cleared his throat and flipped to the next page. "Mr. MacLeod, where were you between nine and ten o'clock on Friday morning, August the twenty-sixth?"

Porasin nodded his permission, and Connor said, "At the courthouse." It felt odd, he reflected, not to have to bother about how much to lie.

"Making bail?" Jarbon asked.

"Getting married."

Stenn leaned forward to sneer, "You just got married."

"That," Connor explained, "was the party. The civil ceremony was on Friday morning at nine-forty, in front of Judge Henkins. Room 212C," he added helpfully to Jarbon, who was writing all this down.

Jarbon looked at his partner. "Stenn?"

"He's lying."

Connor leaned back in his chair and smiled. "Ask the judge."

"It's six o'clock in the morning," Jarbon said to Stenn. "I am not waking up a judge for this."

"Then check the records," Porasin ordered.

"Records Department doesn't open until eight." Jarbon pushed back his chair. "We'll put him back in holding until then."

Only Porasin's warning look and lifted foot kept Connor from swearing out loud.

"Well?" Connor demanded some two and a half hours later. His mood had not improved. His breakfast had consisted of lukewarm coffee and a stale raisin bagel that tasted of onions, and he'd acquired yet another cellmate to add to the five already there. The new one smelled of urine, vomit, and beer. He also snored.

"Records Department doesn't have the papers from Friday yet," Porasin reported, and over Connor's swearing he continued, "The judge is supposed to come in for work at nine. They're going to ask her then."

But they didn't, because the judge didn't come in for work that day. "She called in sick," Porasin told Connor. "Bad cold."

Connor slowly started beating his head against the bars.

"They're faxing her your picture and your name," Porasin said. "It shouldn't be long now. Hang in there."

What else could he do?

It was nearly eleven before the duty officer opened the cell door and let Connor go, but the outprocessing took hours too. The night shift seemed to have mislaid his personal effects. Porasin had to get downright stern.

Stenn was there, watching, an unlit cigarette in his hand, when Connor finally made it to the door. "I told you that you were making a mistake, Lieutenant," Connor said cheerily.

"Fuck you, Nash."

"Do you enjoy lawsuits, Lieutenant Stenn?" Porasin asked. "Wrongful arrest, police harassment, that sort of thing?" Stenn didn't answer, and Porasin nodded. "Didn't think so." He pushed the door open and held it for Connor.

"Hey, Nash!" Stenn called. Connor kept going. "MacLeod!" Stenn called this time.

Connor stopped and ever so slightly turned his head, one hand on the door. "What?"

"That kid you got living with you..."

"My son."

"Yeah right. Is that Brenda's boy?"

Connor ignored Porasin's urgent commands and turned all the way around. The door slowly swung shut behind him.

"He doesn't look much like her," Stenn went on. Porasin yanked open the door again and held it wide. "Doesn't look like you, either," Stenn continued. "Got a temper on him, though. And a mean punch." He rubbed his chest and sniffed. "Just like you. Where'd you get him?"

"He's my son," Connor repeated. "Have a nice day, Lieutenant." He and Porasin were outside before he expressed his true opinion. "Fucking asshole."

"I wasn't entirely joking about the lawsuit," Porasin commented.

In his more irritable moments, Connor had considered it, but it wouldn't be smart, and he knew it. He couldn't withstand that kind of scrutiny. "Nah," he told Porasin. "I don't have time for it. My wife's waiting."

Porasin grinned. "Hurry home!" he called, and Connor did.

* * *

**A Good Cop - On the Other Side**

* * *

For the third time in nine years, Stenn watched that fucking asshole of a head-chopping serial killer walk clean away. He sucked savagely on his cigarette, then dropped it to the pavement and ground it beneath his heel. He was lighting another when Jarbon came out. "There goes a murderer," Stenn said as Nash rounded the corner, walking fast.

"Yeah," Jarbon said, tapping a cigarette out of its pack. "But not this time. What we had was iffy; it was a stretch to get that warrant and you know it. And his alibi is as solid as cement. No way the DA would file charges. We had to let him go."

"He's still a murderer."

Jarbon took a long, slow drag. "Let it go, Johnny."

Stenn couldn't let it go. By definition, serial killers didn't stop at one. Or two. Or three. Like psychotic demented energizer bunnies, they just kept going and going and going, until somebody else made them stop.

And Stenn wanted it to stop. He'd seen enough bodies, crumpled, drained, and dead. He'd seen enough heads brutally tossed aside, the slackened, empty features bruised and battered from being flung halfway across the room, but still with surprised and staring sightless eyes. He'd stepped in enough blood, the wide glistening pools of blood that surrounded the bodies and seeped into his shoes.

The blood that lapped nightly at his dreams.

He wanted it to stop. He especially wanted it to stop before he got the call about the headless body of a ten-year-old boy. Serial killers weren't renowned for their happy family lives.

Stenn ground out his cigarette and went back to work.

He was going to make it stop.


	4. For Better or Worse

**Newlyweds - The Marriage Bed**

* * *

When Connor got back to the loft, his wife and his son were waiting for him. It was a good way to come home. "Dad!" John yelled, running to the door and then launching himself into Connor's arms.

"Hey, slugger!" Connor said, whirling around and then flipping John upside down. "Hey," he said more quietly to Alex, smiling at her over the top of John's feet.

"Hey," she said back, smiling back. The flowers were gone from her hair, but the sapphire necklace he had given to her yesterday still gleamed at her throat, and all the buttons of her wedding gown were still waiting to be undone.

John put his hands on the floor, and Connor let go of John's legs so he could do a walkover to get down. Then Alex was in his arms, with a kiss that promised an equally enthusiastic - and acrobatic - welcome from her, just as soon as they were alone.

It was a great way to come home.

As soon as Connor had answered John's many questions about the visit to the police station (while ignoring some smart-assed comments from Richie and an amused grin or two from Duncan), Margaret suggested to John that they go to the park, and then out for a movie and dinner. She also immediately deflected his automatic assumption that Connor and Alex would be coming along, saying, "I'm sure your dad's tired, John; he didn't get much sleep last night, and neither did Alex." Connor and Alex nodded gravely, and Richie and Duncan also declined to go, citing a game they wanted to watch on TV at 3:30, so John ran upstairs to fetch his baseball hat. It took him a while to find it (Connor had noticed John's room wasn't as neat as it could be lately), and then Margaret whisked John to the door with the promise of ice cream afterward.

"Bye, Dad! Bye, Mom!" John yelled.

"I got promoted," Alex said in response to Connor's questioning look.

"We'll be back around seven!" Margaret called, and they were out the door.

Connor checked the clock (2:36) then quickly figured the time: almost four and a half wonderful hours to be alone with his new bride. He congratulated himself on getting not only a great wife who was clearly going to be a great mother, but a wise and understanding mother-in-law, too.

Unfortunately, Duncan and Richie weren't nearly as understanding - or as wise - as Margaret. They required a firm hint, a glare, and finally a shove to get them out the door. He heard them laughing all the way down the stairs. Connor locked the door after them then changed the security code. No way was Duncan getting back in - not for the next four and a half hours. Connor had plans.

But first... "Did Duncan or Richie go upstairs today?" Connor asked Alex.

"Yes, John was showing them his baseball card collection this morning."

Connor didn't need to hear anymore. Their laughter had said it all. He ran up the stairs and stood just outside the bedroom doorway, inspecting from afar. The books were still neatly on the wall of bookshelves, the gold and purple kimono hung as usual from its bamboo rod on the wall behind the bed, all the dresser drawers were completely shut, and nothing seemed astray.

Connor didn't believe that for minute.

Behind him, he heard the rustle of Alex's gown, and Connor swiftly brought his arm up to bar her way. "What?" she said, and he pointed upwards to where a flat, plastic pan was precariously balanced atop the bedroom door. "Oh, you've got to be kidding," Alex said, as Connor eased his way into the room, pulled over a chair, and climbed up to see. "Water?" she asked.

"Rice." Connor unhooked the string that would have tipped the rice on top of whoever walked into the room then handed the pan down to her.

"Well, Richie did say he'd throw rice later," she said, letting the grains run through her fingers.

"Yes, he did," Connor agreed. But even fair warning wouldn't save him. And Connor hadn't forgotten about the daisy, either. "Let's see what else they've done," he said, and he and Alex started prowling the bedroom suite.

"There's no toilet paper," Alex called from the bathroom. "On the holder or in any of the cupboards." She appeared in the doorway. "And no towels."

Connor shook his head even as chuckled grimly. That was Duncan's doing, Connor knew. He turned off the radio-alarm clock (set to tune into a heavy-metal station on full volume at three-fifteen in the afternoon) then he and Alex checked for more ticking nuisances. They found three.

"How did they know when to set them?" Alex asked, looking at a digital travel clock set to go off at 3:47. "We weren't sure when you'd get home."

"Remember when John went to get his hat?" Connor asked. He held up the Mickey Mouse clock that was set to buzz at three-thirty and had been hidden in his sock drawer. "This is John's."

"He set them."

"Mm-hmm. After Duncan reminded him about the time."

"Oh dear. John doesn't need to be encouraged. Especially not by them." She squared her shoulders and went to check the bookcases.

The bed was very neat. Too neat. "Did you make the bed today?" he asked.

"No, I never went to bed."

Connor was instantly alert. "Are you tired?"

"Definitely not too tired," she replied, turning around to smile. "I fell asleep on the couch downstairs."

Connor smiled back. "Good." He cautiously patted the pale blue coverlet with his hands. The bed made a crinkling sound. When he pulled the coverlet back, he found more rice in between the sheets.

"They actually did put rice between the sheets," Alex said, sounding incredulous. "No wonder you didn't want Duncan to know where we were going."

When Connor patted the pillow cases, they crackled. There he found Rice Krispies.

"Oh, that must be John," Alex said. They stripped the sheets off the bed, neither bothering to comment about it being short-sheeted. "It's still crinkling," Alex said. Underneath the mattress liner, someone had laid out Saturday's newspaper in neat, symmetric rows. The sports section was in the exact center of the bed, and a golf article had been circled in red and had seven arrows pointing to it.

"Amazing Hole-in-One!" the headline read.

Alex laughed. Connor rolled his eyes and sighed.

"I don't want to know if they explained that to John," Alex said.

"I'll get some new sheets and pillowcases," Connor said, and then together they restocked the bathroom and remade the bed.

"What else could they have done?" Alex asked.

"I'm sure we'll find out later," Connor said. "And we should check our luggage before we leave tomorrow. But right now..."

"Yes?" she said invitingly from the other side of the bed.

He opened his mouth to answer, but his stomach spoke up first. It growled. Loudly.

Her smile shifted from seductive to amused. "Right now you need to eat."

"I am hungry," he admitted apologetically. He hadn't eaten much at the wedding dinner last night ("Nervous?" Duncan had suggested with a knowing smile, and Connor had been, but with excitement and anticipation, not fear), and he'd eaten exactly one stale bagel in the last eighteen hours. "And I need a shower."

She didn't argue. "I'll get us something to eat while you're washing," she said, and Connor peeled off his clothes on his way into the bathroom. He hurried through the business of scrubbing off the grime of the police station, brushing his teeth, and shaving, but even so, it was ten past three before he pulled on a pair of jeans and padded barefoot down the stairs.

Alex had food waiting (leftovers from last night) on a small table in front of the west windows. The cream silk of her wedding gown clung to every curve above the waist and flowed gracefully over those below. The light from the window made a halo of her hair and caressed her skin with gold, and when Alex turned and smiled at him, Connor had to remind himself to breathe.

"Mrs. MacLeod," he greeted her and lifted her hand to kiss, all the while looking into her eyes. When he straightened, he kept her hand within his, and she reached out to trace the line of his cheek and chin, then let her fingers trail over the bare skin of his shoulder and chest. Connor told himself to breathe again. "I think I'm underdressed for the occasion," he observed, motioning to her designer gown and then his worn blue jeans.

"I like you underdressed," she said impishly, her hand moving tortuously lower. The tips of her fingers were cool, but he could feel each line of warmth they left on his skin. "Especially for this occasion."

Connor grinned back. "Good." Then his stomach growled again.

"You are hungry," Alex said, and she stepped away. "We eat first," she decreed. "I know you're Immortal, but I'd rather you didn't die from hunger on our wedding night - or rather, our wedding day." She gaze slid down him slowly, and it was a lot hotter than her hands. Connor was about to tell her to forget the food, he could manage, but then she said, "I don't want to have to wait while you revive."

Connor had to admit she had a point. And he really was hungry. Besides, they could flirt across the table. He held her chair for her, a gesture considered either outrageously gallant or politically incorrect in this day and age, but Alex was wearing a full-length skirt and actually needed the help. Besides, it gave Connor a chance to stand directly behind her and enjoy the view of her generous décolletage - and plan his assault on those buttons, all thirty-two of them.

"Food," she reminded him, looking up and laughing, and he laughed too and placed a lingering kiss in the hollow on the side of her neck before he sat down. Then he piled the food on his plate and started to eat.

"So, where was it we didn't go last night?" Alex asked as she speared a tomato slice from her salad.

Connor hastily swallowed a mouthful of duchess potato puff. "A bed-and-breakfast on Commerce Street." He'd noticed the Federal-era townhouse six years before, soon after the restoration was finished, but he'd had no reason to go there - until this summer. Maybe he and Alex could go there for an anniversary. Or just because. Special places could make any time special, and special times could make any place special. No reason to wait for a day that might never come, and plenty of reasons not to wait at all.

"Not too far from here then," she said.

"I didn't want us to get stuck in traffic and have to-"

"-have to wait any longer than we already had," she finished for him.

Connor stopped chewing long enough to give her the slow and careful perusal that always brought a flush to her cheeks. It worked this time, too. "It's been a week," he reminded her.

"Eight days," she corrected. "Nine hours, forty minutes." She buttered a roll, ate half of it, then looked at his plate. He'd demolished the salad, the potatoes, a helping of asparagus, and the chicken breast was nearly gone. "Are you going to want more when that's gone?" she asked.

He could definitely go for another helping, but it would be rude to keep a lady waiting. Connor shook his head and swallowed his food, then stood to pull out Alex's chair.

Only three hours and thirty-five minutes before John and Margaret returned.

Alex relaxed in Connor's arms as he carried her up the stairs. When he paused, she suggested, "You could just carry me into the bedroom. Or use the elevator."

"I'm not tired," he said. "I'm just enjoying the view." He wasn't looking out the windows.

Alex followed his gaze to see that the sapphire was securely tucked between her breasts. Low-cut dresses definitely had some advantages. "Does the necklace come off first," she asked, pitching her voice to somewhere between husky and breathless, "or last?"

His smile started in his eyes, moved to the corners of his mouth, and left her truly breathless. "After," he replied then began climbing again.

The bedroom door was safe now, and Connor carried her across the threshold then twirled them both around so that her skirt flared about them and she had to tighten her arms around his neck. They both laughed, and he set her down but didn't let go of her, and Alex gave him a kiss that outdid the one she'd greeted him with when he'd come home. "I love you," she told him.

His smile this time was simply happy. "I love you, too."

"Is that an old tradition?" she asked. "Carrying the bride across the threshold?"

He shrugged. "Older than I am."

So, he had carried Heather across the threshold of their home. And Brenda too most likely. But Alex wasn't going to ask about his other wives, not now. This was her time.

This was their time.

"So...," she began, and somehow didn't know what else to say. Or what to do. That is, she knew what to do, but she wasn't sure how to start doing it, which was silly. They'd been lovers for seven months, ever since Valentine's Day in the Highlands, so it wasn't as if this was all new. And yet, somehow, it was.

Connor seemed to understand. "Alex," he said, brushing her hair back from her face and tracing the curve of her cheek with a gentle hand, "let me."

"But-"

One finger moved to still her lips. "Later," he promised, with a hint of a grin as his hand started moving again, "I'll let you."

His hand had found its slow and sure way to the nape of her neck, to the sensitive place beneath her hair, and his fingertips were moving, just a little. "You're very convincing, Mr. MacLeod," Alex said.

"I'm glad to hear it, Mrs. MacLeod." His other hand was brushing along her collarbone, very close to the hollow of her throat.

"And you definitely have something to offer."

One eyebrow and one side of his mouth lifted in that challenging and amused look of his that she found so endearingly sexy. "Better than business?" he asked.

"Much better." Her voice came out breathless and husky of its own accord.

His touch was firmer now, more insistent, and his eyes were molten gray with desire and love. "Then let me."

This time, Alex knew exactly what to say. "Yes."

The buttons came first, one by one, and Connor took time between each of them to find a different place to touch her, to caress her, to send shivers of longing chasing after waves of desire.

When at last he slid the dress from her shoulders and let it pool around her feet, he stepped back to admire. "Nice," he said, but in a way that reassured her the lingerie had been worth every penny and then some. She'd spent more on her bridal underwear than she usually spent on an entire outfit.

Connor was circling her slowly, close enough that she could feel his breath on her skin.

"No more buttons," she pointed out.

The sound he made was halfway between a chuckle and a growl, and it sent a shiver from the nape of her neck to her toes. "But it does have laces," he replied.

It did indeed. The lingerie was white, but that was the only virginal thing about it.

"Do I start untying here?" Connor asked, reaching out to tug gently at one of the laces. Then he moved to stand behind her. "Or here?" He tugged again, making Alex gasp, and this time Connor's low voice was purely a growl, a whisper of desire close by her ear. "Soon."

But first, he knelt in front of her and carefully and slowly divested her of shoes and stockings and corset, and then he laid her down upon the bed. "I love you," he told her.

"I can tell," she said and pulled him down for a kiss. "I've never felt so...cherished."

Connor was interlacing his fingers between hers so that their wedding rings touched. He looked up to say, "That's part of the vow."

"To love, honor, and cherish," she agreed, tightening her hand on his. "I love you, too." They kissed again, sweetly. The passion could wait a few moments more. "I'm glad we're at home," she said. "It's a good place to start a marriage."

"I think so, too." Then he carefully brushed the hair back from her face and kissed her, and the sweetness flowed into fire as his hands began to move once more.

Some time later, when Alex was floating somewhere between exquisite pleasure and unbearable urgency, she heard Connor say, "Fuck," with great intensity.

If Alex's eyes had been open, she would have blinked. Connor wasn't usually so blunt. Sometimes, yes, during what Lara would call "wild-assed monkey sex", but not during tender moments, not when they were making love, and definitely not when he was making love to her.

"Connor?" she began, but he kissed her quickly with a muttered apology and left her alone in the bed. It was only then that she heard his cellular phone ringing in the sitting room.

"They'll come in handy," he'd said when he'd bought them each one in April. "We'll be able to contact each other no matter where we are, even without the car phone."

"Like communicators from Star Trek," Alex had said, hefting the black, rectangular phone in her hand. "Except bigger."

"They'll shrink," Connor had said. "And in a couple of years, everybody's going to have one."

At the time, Alex had thought they were a good idea. Being able to contact Connor could be critical. But besides herself, only Rachel, Duncan, and John had that phone number. If this was Duncan's idea of another joke, she'd kill him. Literally.

If not... "Fuck," Alex said, sitting up and wondering what had gone wrong now.

Connor came back in, his face grim. "Get dressed," he said, even as he followed his own order and grabbed a T-shirt out of the armoire.

Alex went straight to the dresser for some underwear, the everyday kind, and she grabbed slacks and a shirt from the closet. She didn't ask questions; Connor had been that abrupt with her only once before, when he'd found out that Kane was planning to kidnap John. As they pulled on their clothes, Connor explained, "Stenn's going after our son."

Damn. Except for the name of the bad guy and one very important pronoun, the words were the same as they had been six months before.

Well, she thought as she zipped her slacks, at least no one had lost their head. And unlike Kane, Stenn wasn't a psychotic murderer. John was probably frightened and angry, but he wouldn't be sobbing in terror and he wasn't in mortal danger. This wasn't all that bad. Relatively speaking.

Even so ... damn it all to hell.

She kept the sapphire necklace on, trusting that Connor would, eventually, have the chance to take it off. Sandals were quicker than shoes, and she ran her fingers through her hair and was ready to go. Connor was waiting, his sword in his hand.

She had to step over her wedding gown on the way out the door.

* * *

**A Family Man - The Runaround**

* * *

"They took him," Margaret said, looking beseechingly from Alex, who was seated on the art deco settee next to her, then up to Connor and Duncan, down to Rachel on the silk-covered Louis XVI chair, and back to Alex again. "We were standing in line to buy movie tickets, and they just came up and took him. I wanted to go with him, I said my daughter was married to John's father, but the policeman said no, I wasn't really family. I tried, but..." She shook her head, a picture of bewildered shock, this nice, middle-aged woman from a small town who'd probably never even gotten a parking ticket. "I can't believe they took him."

"Mom," Alex said, taking her hand. "It'll be all right. We'll get him back."

"What precinct were they from?" Connor asked.

"What? I don't--"

"Why'd they pick him up?" he asked next.

"They didn't say."

"You sure they were cops?"

"Well, yes, of course! I mean, who else would-"

Another Immortal would, Connor thought grimly.

"They had uniforms and badges," Margaret went on. "And a police car. I heard the scanner."

That sounded real. Connor relaxed - a little. "Did you see their license plate?"

"No."

"Christ," he muttered.

"Margaret, did they give you any papers?" Rachel asked gently, with a stern look to Connor that let him know she thought his impatience had trespassed into rudeness. Connor pulled over a stool from the desk and sat down, so he wouldn't be towering over the women. Duncan remained standing, his arms folded, listening intently.

"No," Margaret said to Rachel. "They said they had to deliver the papers to his legal guardians."

"Nothing's been delivered yet," Duncan observed.

Connor wasn't surprised. It had been only twelve minutes, and Stenn was in no hurry. If it really was Stenn.

"It wasn't Stenn's precinct," Rachel said. "Or at least, John's not there yet. I just called."

"Here," Richie said, coming over from Rachel's desk, a piece of paper in his hand. "Social Services' phone number. They'll have somebody with him. Right?" he asked Margaret.

"Why, yes! There was a woman, sitting in the police car. I did see that."

"That's good, Mom," Alex said.

Connor reached for the paper, but Richie said, "They're more likely to talk to a mom," and Alex stood to take it. "It helps if it sounds like you're crying," Richie added, and Alex nodded matter-of-factly, even though Connor knew she hated to cry. Alex went to the desk to dial the number, while Rachel walked to the front door and flipped the sign to "Closed" even though it wasn't even four in the afternoon yet.

"You should have some ID for John when you go to get him," Richie said Connor. "They like to see paperwork."

"Thanks, Richie," Connor said. It was handy, having a former juvenile delinquent around.

"I'll start calling the precincts on the phone in the apartment," Duncan said and headed for the stairs.

Connor took Alex's cell phone from her purse and called Porasin yet again

"You should change," Rachel said when he was done. "You'll need to look respectable when you go to get John."

Fuck it, Connor wanted to say, but Rachel was right. Jeans and a T-shirt, while fast to put on and comfortable to wear, didn't impress. At least he had shaved recently. Alex, in navy slacks and a crisp white shirt, would be fine when it came time to go. When they knew where to go.

When they knew where John was.

"Damn it," Connor swore viciously, and he would have kept going in much more colorful terms, but his mother-in-law was watching him with uneasy eyes, and he couldn't afford to lose his temper, not now, not here, no matter how much he wanted to beat Stenn into a sniveling, bloody pulp. Only scum went after a man's son.

"We'll find John, Connor," Rachel said, standing in front of him so that he had to stop pacing. "There are five of us here to help."

He heard what she was saying beneath the words: He had family. He wasn't alone.

"Go change," she said gently, and he did, taking a minute to eat a banana and another minute to put some hundreds and some twenties into his wallet. Cash was always handy, and there might be fines to pay. Or bribes to offer. One never knew.

Then Connor called Sean Burns.

"Of course, Connor," Sean said, after Connor had explained the situation. "I'm not leaving until Friday; it's no bother. I can testify to the family environment and to John's mental state. And to yours."

"Right," Connor said dryly. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

"Indeed. Let me know if you need me at the police station."

"Thanks, Sean. I'll call," Connor said. Porasin had said he'd bring along the adoption papers, just in case, and Connor picked up John's passport on his way out the door.

Duncan had nothing yet, so they went back to the store. "No papers so far," Rachel told him, and Connor swore - silently, so as not to alarm his mother-in-law. Maybe it really had been another Immortal. Maybe they should be waiting for a ransom note...or something worse. Maybe-

"Yes, yes," Alex suddenly said into the phone, and Connor closed his eyes in relief.

Alex held up a hand for silence as everyone gathered around. "You're sure? You just got the call. Oh, thank you so much, Susan. You've been wonderful. It's simply been awful, you know?" She sounded close to tears. "Thank you again. Goodbye." Alex blew out a gust of air as she set down the phone. She was perfectly dry-eyed. "Sixth precinct," she announced, standing up to go.

"I just called them," Duncan said with understandable irritation.

Richie shrugged and rolled his eyes. "Cops."

"It's only a few blocks north of here," Rachel said.

"Then let's walk," Alex said to Connor, and she picked up her purse. "It won't take long."

Connor left his sword in the Chinese vase next to the elevator, its usual hiding place. It wasn't smart to take a murder weapon with you to a police station, especially when you wanted to take a cop apart with your bare hands.

"Good luck!" Margaret called, and the others said the same.

"Thanks!" Alex said. "We'll call and let you know."

"Why'd they pick John up?" Connor asked Alex as they went out the door.

"The people I talked to didn't know."

"Jesus Christ," Connor muttered, and they both picked up the pace, sweating under the hot August sun. Still, walking was better than being cooped up inside a subway car or sitting in traffic, and the precinct headquarters was less than half a mile away.

The building announced itself by its ugliness. A few spindly trees had been stuck in the sidewalk, but they did nothing to soften the stark monolith of concrete with haphazardly placed and grimy windows. It was clearly one of the "modern" buildings done about forty years before. The second floor jutted out over the entry, brooding over two preposterously slender columns that looked like misplaced fangs set in an impossibly wide and gaping mouth. Connor gritted his teeth and went in.

The cop at the front desk didn't know anything about John. "You got to ask juvie," he said. He jerked his head toward the stairs. "Follow the signs."

The cop at the "juvie" desk didn't know. "Hey, Charlie!" he yelled, turning to look across the room. "You got anything on a kid named MacLeod?"

"No. Talk to Chen."

"Chen just went off shift," said a cop who was walking by. The clock on the wall read 5:02.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Connor swore, and Alex laid her hand on his arm, while the cop at the desk looked him over with narrowed eyes. Connor tried to slap a pleasant, inoffensive look on his face. It didn't work too well.

The cop pointed to the row of flimsy plastic chairs pushed up against the wall. "Just have a seat, Mr. and Mrs. MacLeod."

Alex perched on the edge of a chair, but Connor didn't sit down. Sitting down meant being ignored. Sitting down meant waiting even more.

The cop locked eyes with him for a moment then shrugged and started flipping through a log book. Cops came and went. A screaming seven-year-old was carried through the hall. A sullen girl with too much eye makeup blew a cop a kiss then laughed at him. The desk cop finally picked up the phone. Connor listened in.

"Yeah. Ok. Any problems? Oh." He wrote something down. "Right." He hung up.

Connor straightened expectantly. Alex stood.

"Hey, Charlie," the cop said. "Take these folks to Room 12, would you?"

"Thank you, Officer," Alex said with a smile that was halfway between pathetic and grateful. She got a smile in return. Connor got a dirty look.

"You didn't tell me you had stage experience," Connor said to her as they followed Charlie down the stairs.

"Don't you know anything about catching flies?"

"Who wants flies?"

She punched him on the upper arm.

"Here you are," Charlie said, opening the door to a room that looked very much like the interrogation room Connor had been in some twelve hours before. This time, though, the water stain was in the right-hand corner of the ceiling, and the table was olive green instead of gray. "Have a seat," Charlie said, and then he left them there alone.

Connor didn't sit down.

"There's no one here to intimidate," Alex said, taking a chair facing the door. "Or impress."

"I don't impress you?"

This time her smile was real. "Always." She took her phone from her purse and filled Rachel in on what had happened. Which was basically nothing. "Rachel says a policeman showed up, but wouldn't give her the papers because she's not John's legal guardian," Alex reported. Connor shook his head, then took the phone and called Porasin.

"I'm at the front desk, MacLeod," Porasin told him.

"Why the hell did they pick him up?"

"I don't know yet." He interrupted Connor's muttered imprecations to say, "I'll be with John soon."

At least that was something. "Good. Let us know how he is."

"Will do."

"And tell him we're here."

"You bet."

"That's good," Alex said as she put away the phone away. "John likes him."

Connor nodded grimly. John shouldn't be alone.

John shouldn't be here at all.

Alex looked at her watch. "What do you say we give them five more minutes and then go ask them what is going on?"

Connor grinned. She was definitely his kind of woman. "Four."

"Four it is."

But Lieutenant Flaherty and Officer Cusicki arrived with seventy-five seconds to spare. "Mr. MacLeod, Mrs. MacLeod," Flaherty said heartily, shaking hands with both of them. Cusicki was clearly the guard dog; he stood in front of the door. "Thank you for coming to the precinct house," Flaherty said as he sat down.

"We'd have been here sooner if we'd known where our son was," Connor replied.

Flaherty peeled a note off the front of the folder. "It says here they tried to call a bunch of times, but the numbers were always busy."

"They told my mother they'd deliver papers," Alex said.

"Oh, they do that, too, but phones are faster." He stuck the note back on the folder and added, "Except when the lines are busy."

Some days, Connor decided, it just wasn't worth trying.

"Now then," Flaherty said, flipping through the file, "what do we have..."

"You tell us," Connor said. "Why did your cops pick him up?"

"You don't know." He sounded surprised.

"No." Connor managed to keep the word from being a growl.

Flaherty looked at the file again. "It says here you both witnessed the incident."

"What incident?" Alex asked with honest bewilderment.

Flaherty leaned back in his chair, his hands folded over his ample stomach, his thumbs casually circling around each other, but his eyes were judgmental and cold. "Your son assaulted a police officer last night."

"Oh, come on," Connor said in disgust. Even Stenn couldn't be this petty.

"The petition of complaint was filed this morning," Flaherty added. "That's why we took him into custody."

"You arrested him?" Connor asked incredulously. "For that? You've got to be kidding."

"You don't think this is serious."

"Stenn doesn't even have a bruise." Except maybe on his ass.

"It's still assault, Mr. MacLeod."

"Don't you cops have serious crime to deal with? John's only ten years old."

"Yeah. I know." Flaherty leaned forward, his jovial mannerisms completely gone. "And you know what, Mr. MacLeod? Age don't mean shit. We've got eight-year-olds dealing drugs on the street corners and nine-year-old giving blowjobs in the alleys. And right now, we've got a seven-year-old in lockup for killing his baby sister with a plastic bag and an extension cord." For a second, he looked away, swallowing hard.

"It starts younger every year," Flaherty went on. "A little backtalk to the parents, a little attitude to the teachers, then he's taking a swing at a cop - and that is a serious crime, Mr. MacLeod, and no, we don't kid about stuff like that around here, because the next thing you know he's shooting a cop or he's shooting his parents, or he's shooting up his whole damn school with a semiautomatic and everybody says, 'How come we didn't see this coming?'

"Well this time, we did see it coming. And we're stopping it right here. That kid of yours needs to be taught a lesson: you don't hit cops."

Connor did. On occasion. And "that kid" was his son. "John isn't-"

"You're right, Lieutenant Flaherty," Alex interrupted. "John shouldn't have lost his temper, and he certainly should never have tried to hit Lieutenant Stenn. It is a serious matter, and we intend to treat it - and John - very seriously."

"Well, Mrs. MacLeod, I'm glad to hear that. Some people -" and here Connor got another dirty look "- don't take that kind of responsibility for their children."

Connor started to answer, only to feel Alex's nails digging painfully into his forearm. He shut up. At least she wasn't stomping on his feet.

"John really is a very good boy," Alex said. "He was just upset, and-"

"Says in the file you call him 'slugger'. Does he usually hit people when he's upset?"

"No, of course not, but they were-"

Now it was Connor's turn to take hold of Alex's arm. Flaherty didn't need to hear about John's father being arrested on suspicion of murder. "The nickname's from baseball," Connor explained. "I want to see him."

"All in good time, Mr. MacLeod."

"Now is a good time."

Flaherty gave him a tight smile, the kind that is more irritated than amused. "No, it really isn't, Mr. MacLeod."

"How is he?" Alex asked with a quaver in her voice. Connor thought he saw the glint of tears in her eyes. "We've been so worried."

"He's fine, Mrs. MacLeod," Flaherty said, now sympathetic. "A lady from Social Services is with him. They're just doing paperwork."

"So, what happens now?" Alex said to Flaherty.

There was a tap on the door, and someone handed another file to Cusicki.

"We finish processing him..."

Connor hated that phrase. It sounded like making sausage. Cusicki set the file on the table, next to Flaherty's right hand.

"...take his fingerprints, his picture, that sort of thing. Talk to him for a bit. You'll need to fill out some paperwork. Have to set a date for the adjudication, and then..."

"And then we can take him home?" Alex finished hopefully.

But now Flaherty was reading the new file.

"Lieutenant Flaherty?" Alex asked.

He was still reading. Then he glanced once at Connor, stood, murmured something to Cusicki, and left.

"Officer Cusicki?" Alex tried next.

"If you'll just wait here, ma'am," the young man said, but he kept his gaze steadily on Connor and didn't even look at her, which was how Connor knew something was seriously wrong.

He didn't like this at all.

Ten minutes later they were asked to be seated in yet another room. This one lacked the water stain. It even had a window. The view, however, was of a blank concrete wall, and the furniture was just as ugly.

Connor called Rachel and explained what was going on. "I'll call you when we know something more."

"Good, but don't call the store," she said. "I'm taking Margaret home with me for dinner."

He'd forgotten all about his mother-in-law. "Thanks, Rachel," Connor said for the fourth or fifth time that day. She deserved flowers, definitely, and he'd make her cream puffs, too. She liked cream puffs.

Then he called Porasin again, who said that John was fine, he was eating a sandwich and that, no, Connor couldn't talk to him, because that was just how it was, and yes, of course, he'd been trying to hurry the cops along, and now he had to go; they were calling his name. Yes, he would tell John that his mom and dad loved him, and oh, yeah, Connor should be patient. And be quiet.

Connor hung up on him. He was really getting tired of this crap.

Alex leaned against his shoulder and sighed. After a while, Cusicki brought coffee. It was terrible, but at least it was hot and had caffeine. Connor's eyes felt gritty, and he was starting to get that far away buzzing in his ears that came with lack of sleep. He stirred in a packet of sugar and drank half the vile brew.

Finally, the door opened, and a fair-haired man in a grey suit came in. "I'm Michael Jackson," he announced, shaking their hands, "but I go by Mike, because I'm not that Michael Jackson, hah-hah." He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose and smiled in hopeful friendliness, looking back and forth between them like a Labrador waiting for a stick to be thrown.

"That's a very good idea, Mr. Jackson," Alex said, sounding totally sincere.

"Where's John?" Connor asked.

"Ah, yes. John." Mike Jackson sat down and pulled out yet another file. "I'm afraid there have been some, um, concerns raised about handing John over into your custody, after this unfortunate affair is settled."

"Why?" Connor demanded. "He's our son."

"Well, that's the question now, isn't it." He pushed his glasses up again. "Is he your son? Legally?"

"Son of a bitch," Connor breathed, remembering Stenn's comments from earlier that day. Stenn wasn't just out to arrest John. He wanted to take him away. "That son of a bitch."

Alex touched him lightly on the arm, and Connor summoned centuries of practice and let his hot rage slide into icy calm. "John's adopted," Alex was saying, "and our lawyer has the papers with him. He's here in the building. You can-"

Jackson held up a hand, smiling while he shook his head. "No, no, Mrs. MacLeod. That won't do, I'm afraid. Your lawyer has copies of adoption papers. No offense, but...well, they could have come from anywhere. We need to hear from the agency itself to verify the adoption was legal. After they fax us the papers, we'll see if everything's in order, and if it is, then you can take John home."

"It was a French firm," Connor said. "He was adopted in Morocco."

"Yes? So?"

This guy really was an idiot. "So it's eleven o'clock at night there," Connor explained.

"Oh. Yes, so it is. Well, um...I guess the offices are probably closed."

"Probably," Connor agreed dryly.

"Well. Oh dear. I'm afraid we'll have to wait."

"Until tomorrow?" Alex asked.

"I'm afraid so. You do understand our position, Mr. and Mrs. MacLeod. We can't just let the boy go without being sure that he doesn't a family somewhere waiting for him."

Connor leaned forward. "He does have a family waiting for him. Right here. We're the only family he has."

Mike Jackson beamed at him across the table. "And as soon as we're sure of that, you can get him back."

Connor was going to get John back no matter what. No one - especially not Stenn - was going to get between him and his son.

* * *

**Mrs. MacLeod - Married Life**

* * *

"Now what?" Connor asked Porasin, as the three of them slid into a booth near the back door of a diner that was down the street from the precinct house. The cracks in the plastic seats were patched with silver duct tape, the corner of the table was sticky, and something crunched beneath Alex's foot. Perhaps, she thought amid the clink and clatter of dishes, perhaps it was good that her marriage to an Immortal had started out this way. Not much would surprise her after this.

"Was the adoption legit?" Porasin asked. He took up nearly the entire bench on his side.

"Yes."

"Then we wait. They get the papers, they see that John's legally yours, they give him back to you."

"And meanwhile, he's God-knows-where for God-knows-how-long," Connor said.

"We know he's in a safe house tonight; we just don't know where, because then you might - oh, just possibly - try to get your kid back. Don't worry; once the police get the paperwork, it shouldn't take long."

"And the assault charge?"

"We'll try to get that dismissed or adjusted, which shouldn't be too hard, but if not, I really don't think there'll be any time to serve. Instead, there'll be some counseling, maybe some family counseling..."

"John and Connor already saw a psychiatrist earlier this year," Alex said. "Sean would testify for us, wouldn't he, Connor?"

He nodded. "I asked him this afternoon."

"Hmmm...might help, might not," said Porasin. "Still, good to know. Whatever happens, John's going to have to show up for court."

Connor's snort somehow combined exasperation and disgust. "And we're on our way to Scotland."

"Oh, yeah, the honeymoon in the Highlands. When's the flight?"

"Tomorrow night at eight-thirty," Alex said.

Porasin's eyebrows went up. "Might want to cancel your tickets."

Alex glanced at Connor, who shook his head. "If we have to, we'll buy new ones."

It was nice, this having lots of money. Weird, but nice.

"Was John going with you?" Porasin asked next.

"No," Connor said. "The plan was for him to go camping in the Adirondacks with his uncle and a friend for two weeks, then Rachel's bringing him to us in Scotland."

Plans changed. Alex sighed then picked up the menu, which featured sixteen different kinds of hamburgers and three flavors of milk shakes. This restaurant hadn't been in the plan, either. They were supposed to be dining at their favorite Italian restaurant, after having spent a wonderful day both in and out of bed. Well, she'd get to wear that dress another time. And that underwear.

"Don't tell the cops about Scotland," Porasin said. "They don't like people who are accused of crimes to leave the country."

"Good thing I didn't show them his passport," Connor noted.

A waitress came to their booth. Her pink hair matched her uniform. "Something to drink?"

"Coffee," Connor said. "Caffeinated."

"For me, too, please," Alex said. In the last thirty-six hours, she'd had about four hours of sleep. Connor, she knew, had had none.

"Nothing for me, thanks," Porasin said, and the waitress nodded and left. "I'm going home to eat," Porasin said, jabbing a finger at Connor. "And I would like to spend the entire night in my bed. So don't you - or anyone else in your family - go getting arrested again, OK?"

"We won't even jaywalk on our way home," Alex promised.

"Good. I'll find you a lawyer who specializes in juvenile cases. This isn't my game."

"Thanks," Connor said.

Then Porasin got up, looming over their table just by standing there. "Don't screw with the cops, MacLeod," he warned. "As you may have noticed lately, they can make your life miserable. And that makes my life miserable, too." He grinned cheerily, in the same way that Connor and Duncan grinned right before they tossed opponents to the floor, and added: "Then I'd have to stomp on your other foot." He nodded to Alex with a wink and a smile then left.

Alex turned to Connor. "Stomp on your other foot?"

He shrugged. "His way of reminding me to take his advice."

"Ah."

"Phone?" Connor asked, and Alex handed it to him. He called the apartment. "Duncan. Not yet. They want to make sure the adoption was legal ... Yeah. It does, but it could be worse ... Can your lawyer in Paris help get things started with the adoption agency? ... Thanks ... And Duncan? Promise me something?"

Connor turned the phone a little so she could hear Duncan say earnestly, "Of course, Connor."

"Stay the hell out of my bedroom."

Alex didn't need to have the phone turned now. Duncan's laughter came through loud and clear. "Think that'll keep him out?" she asked after Connor hung up.

"No." He grinned. "But the new security code will."

"New security code?"

He nodded, already punching in Rachel's number. "I changed it this afternoon."

Alex reached over and put her hand over the phone. "And you were going to tell me this...when?"

He looked up, his forefinger hovering over the nine. "Um..."

She waited, her eyebrows raised expectantly.

"Things got busy," he said, with an apologetic grin.

He looked very sweet that way. Charming. Boyish, even. Alex wasn't buying. She took hold of one of his ears, which was her way of reminding him to take her advice. "I'm your wife, Connor. Don't leave me out, and don't shut me out." Alex gave his head a shake. "Not ever."

The charm disappeared from his smile, but the sincere apology remained, and Alex accepted it now. "Right," he agreed, and kissed her so that they both smiled. "Not ever."

And yet, right after they got home, Connor changed back into T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, kissed her once, and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" she said, getting in front of him.

"To see Stenn."

"No, you're not."

"Alex-"

"No," she said, and his expression hardened, going from normal stubbornness to irritated determination. Alex didn't care. She'd let him order her around when they first found out John was missing; she was going to be in charge now. "What are you going to do?" she asked. "Talk to him? Or hit him?"

He shrugged, but his eyes betrayed his anger. "That cop needs to be taught a lesson: don't mess with my son."

"John's been arrested for assaulting a police officer; do you think it will help if his father is arrested on the same charge? Again?"

"If you're talking about the time at the airport, that was for resisting arrest," Connor corrected. "Not assault."

"Whatever," she said dismissively. "Will it help us get John back? And keep him? Because even if they agree the adoption was legal, we still might have to prove that we're 'fit parents'. We could still lose him."

Bleakness washed over the anger in his eyes. "I know."

"So we leave Stenn alone," she said, laying her hands on his upper arms, hoping to soothe him with her touch. "And we wait, just like Porasin said, and we stay out of trouble. Tomorrow, the police will get the paperwork, John will come home, and then you and I will go to the Highlands for our honeymoon. OK?"

He grimaced, as if tasting something sour, but he nodded. "OK." The anger was still in his eyes, still in the tenseness of his stance. "It's just...I hate waiting."

Alex shook her head. "You're good at waiting." He was one of the most patient men she'd ever known. "What you hate is being helpless."

That got her a smile, a small one, and he reached up to take her hand in his. "Yeah." He pulled her closer, and she went into his arms and hugged him tight. Slowly, she felt some of his tension ease away. "I can't shut you out," he said softly against her hair. "You're already inside."

In the last twenty-four hours, Alex had lost count of how many times she'd found tears in her eyes. At least this time, there was a smile that came along. "I love you," she told him, and then he kissed her, the fingers of one hand tangling in her hair, and his other hand sliding along her spine, urging her closer, pulling her in.

Then the telephone rang.

"Oh God," Alex sighed with exasperation, then the worry came flooding back. "I guess we should answer that."

Connor met her eyes with grim understanding then went to answer the phone. "Margaret, hi," he said, and Alex came over to rescue him. Connor wouldn't want to talk to her mother right now.

"Hi, Mom," Alex said, taking the phone. "Yes, we just got home... Tomorrow, we hope... We ate at a diner... No, this isn't your fault, Mom. I'm sure. Yes... No..."

Connor was starting to pace, and Alex covered the receiver with her hand and suggested, "Why don't you go downstairs to the gym?" Sitting around and being frustrated by other people always made him extremely cranky, and he hadn't gotten any exercise (except for that interrupted tryst in bed and the brief walk to and from the police station) since yesterday morning.

He nodded and disappeared, and Alex went back to soothing her mother, who was busy blaming herself for losing John.

They were still talking when Connor came back upstairs, though they'd moved on to easier topics for a while and now her mother was soothing her. Connor waved to her, made scrubbing motions with his hands, and went upstairs.

Three minutes later he came back, dripping wet and wearing only a towel, and he stalked through the living space and out the door.

"Uh, Mom," Alex said. "I really have to go." They said goodnight, and Alex hung up the phone and went to the hallway. Connor was nowhere to be seen, though a faint line of damp footprints led to the stairs. She went to the stairwell and opened the door. A few partial footprints could be seen going down.

Richie's voice floated up. "It looks like he didn't want that cold shower after all, Mac."

Duncan's deeper tones were easy to hear: "And here I thought he'd like it to remind him of his Highland roots."

"Not many men like cold showers on their honeymoon," Richie pointed out.

"That's true." And then they were both laughing as Connor's footsteps neared.

She retreated to the loft and waited there. Connor entered, shaking his head and muttering. She thought it was Gaelic. She was sure it was swearing. He went back upstairs, and she heard the shower start again.

Alex went upstairs to the bedroom. Connor, always the neat one, had picked up the wedding clothes that they had abandoned on the floor earlier that day and laid them on the divan. Maybe she'd have time to send them to the drycleaners tomorrow. Maybe not. Alex started putting things away.

When Connor came out of the bathroom, he was still shaking his head, but he was almost smiling now.

"Duncan?" Alex asked.

Connor nodded as he opened a dresser drawer. "He kept his promise; he didn't come into the bedroom. He turned the hot water off from downstairs." Connor chuckled with mingled fondness, exasperation, and pride. "I should have known; he's always been dependable - for both good things and bad."

Alex refrained from pointing out that Duncan probably wouldn't have done anything if he hadn't been challenged by Connor's ultimatum. Those two had a three-hundred-fifty-year-old pissing contest going on; little things like weddings and police harassment wouldn't get in its way.

"Any hot water left?" she asked.

"Sure."

"My turn then. I won't be long." She wanted to get the cigarette smoke from the diner out of her hair. And afterwards...

But afterwards, her husband was asleep. She couldn't blame him. It had been a very long day. And night. And day.

He half-opened his eyes when she got into bed. "Sorry."

"It's all right." She snuggled against him. "I'm tired, too."

"We could..."

She kissed him, but only lightly. "When we 'celebrate' this marriage, I want your full attention, and I want to be able to give you mine. We're both tired, we're both worried, and I don't think either of us is in the mood."

"Yeah." His eyes were already closed. "Sorry," he said again.

"Me, too. Goodnight, sweetheart."

"Goodnight, Mrs. MacLeod." The words were slurred with sleep, but his arms were holding her tight, and she felt safe in his arms.

She hoped John felt safe, too. She hoped the house Social Services had put him in was all right. "When you're worried about your children," her mother had told her on the phone, "you don't sleep, not at first. But eventually you do. You have to, and beside, you're no use to anyone without it. Do what you can, sleep, and then do what you can again."

Connor wasn't the only who hated being helpless. But there was nothing more she could do, not tonight. Tomorrow, as Scarlet O'Hara liked to say, was another day. Alex closed her eyes.

When she woke, Connor was gone and the bed beside her was cold. It was still dark outside, and the clock read 5:14. Tomorrow had come earlier today.

Downstairs, Connor was talking in Arabic on the phone. It was ten o'clock in Morocco, and Connor was apparently doing what he could to hurry the paperwork along. No doubt, in the apartment Duncan was talking to his lawyer in France.

Alex made coffee, then asked, "Breakfast?" when Connor finally got off the phone.

"Yeah, in a bit," he said, standing to stretch his arms behind his back. She watched in appreciation as the muscles of his shoulders shifted and gathered under the thin fabric of his shirt. "But I need to go running. Want to come?"

She hadn't even finished her coffee. "No thanks. Why don't you ask Duncan?"

"Good idea."

But fifteen minutes later, while Alex was mixing muffin batter, Duncan knocked on the door. Clean-shaven and chipper, dressed in blue jeans and a white T-shirt, he looked more than ready to start the day.

"Want help making breakfast?" he asked, and of course she let him in.

"You didn't go running?"

"Oh no," he answered. "I never run with Connor when he's in a bad mood." He poured himself some coffee, then grinned cheerfully and said, "Omelets? Or a soufflé?"

After breakfast (Richie somehow managed to show up just in time), they waited for the phone to ring. Duncan did the crossword puzzle, Richie did the dishes, Connor made cream filling and puff pastry ("For Rachel," he explained, smacking Richie's hands away). Alex started laying out John's camping gear.

Porasin called at 9:18. Alex listened in. "The papers arrived already," Porasin said, sounding a little surprised.

"Good. What's the verdict?" Connor asked.

"Well..."

"What?" he snapped.

"They're in French and Arabic. The cops are having them translated. It'll be a little while."

Connor went downstairs to hit the punching bag.

About half an hour later, he came back up with a vase of flowers in his hand and gave them to Alex. "Oh," she said in blank surprise. "They're beautiful. And daisies are one of my favorites, of course. But I-"

"They're not from me," he interrupted.

"Oh," she said again, in just the same way, then took out the card. It read simply, "Sorry," and it was signed with the letter T.

"Tommy?" Connor asked.

"Mm-hmm." Alex slowly put the card back in its envelope. They'd talked yesterday morning, while Connor was still in jail, and although she'd been angry with Tommy at the beginning, they'd ended with a hug. She hadn't expected flowers, though. And this really wasn't a good time to explain, with John not home. Connor wasn't in the best of moods.

"Sorry he didn't bring a present to the wedding? Sorry you're leaving?" Connor inquired. "Or sorry you married me?"

Alex set the flowers down on the table and faced her husband to say calmly, "He's sorry he didn't believe me when I said you were a good man, because he believes that now." She was very aware of Duncan and Richie silently observing from the other side of the room, witnessing what could well turn out to be the newlywed's first fight. She took a deep breath and took the plunge: "But he's also sorry that he went to the police with his suspicions about you."

Connor blinked. Just once. "Did he."

Alex had heard that calm, quiet voice of his only a few times before. It was never a good sign. "We found out last night," she said, "right after you left-"

"After the cops arrested me," Connor corrected. "At our wedding. Because Tommy tipped them off."

"It wasn't his fault," Alex told him. "You know Stenn's always after you. Any excuse would have done. Tommy was worried about me; he was only trying to help."

After a moment, Connor nodded, and Alex knew this "fight" was done. They'd talked about Tommy's suspicions before, and about the lies Alex had to tell.

Then Connor asked: "And you were going to tell me about this...when?"

She fed him back the line he'd given her earlier, with the same kind of apologetic grin. "Things got busy." She added more softly, "I'm sorry. I forgot all about him. I've been thinking about John, and before that-" She looked him over deliberately, appreciatively, and then slowly wet her lips as she met his eyes. "Before that, I was thinking about you."

Connor gave her the same kind of slow, smoldering look in return. "Good."

Hot and steamy was definitely on the weather forecast for today. But not this morning; they were still waiting for the phone to ring. Alex kissed him with a murmured promise of "Later," and got back a repeat of the half-growled "Soon" that had sent shivers down her spine yesterday and did the same today.

But soon wasn't now. She pulled away reluctantly then tried to keep busy. She sent the wedding clothes out to be dry-cleaned and repacked their suitcases (it took her fifteen minutes to shake out the rice). She was putting stamps on the thank-you notes when Porasin called to say, "Good news, MacLeod. You can come get your boy."

"Thank God," Alex breathed.

While Alex put her shoes on, Connor finished pouring the chocolate sauce on the last of the cream puffs. Then he kicked Richie and Duncan out of the loft and very pointedly locked the door, and she and Connor walked to precinct headquarters again. Alex soon realized why Duncan hadn't wanted to run with Connor today. Even walking, it was hard to keep up with Connor when he was in a bad mood.

"I'm here to pick up my son," Connor told the officer at the juvie desk.

"Name?"

"MacLeod. John MacLeod."

"Don't know. Let me see." He dug through some paperwork and finally said, "Oh, yeah. You got to talk to Lieutenant Flaherty first."

"All right," he said, and Alex didn't trust the evenness of Connor's tone. "Where is he?"

"Don't know. Let me see." He nodded to the row of chairs against the wall. "You two can just sit down over there."

Connor didn't sit down. Alex took a deep breath, smiled nicely at the officer, and stayed by Connor's side.

They had time to read all the wanted posters on the wall and the advice about using car seats before Flaherty showed up at 11:12. "Mr. MacLeod. Mrs. MacLeod." He didn't bother to offer to shake hands, which was wise.

"Where's our son?" Connor demanded.

"There's something you need to take care of first, Mr. MacLeod."

"What?"

Alex winced. The word sounded almost as sharp as Connor's sword.

Flaherty scratched the side of his balding head and almost smiled, somehow managing to look like an angry frog. "You'll have to ask Mrs. Twiss."

"Mrs. Twiss," Connor repeated flatly.

"The truant officer. 'Cause see, we couldn't find any record at all of your kid being in school."

* * *

**Lieutenant Stenn - Hard Words**

* * *

"So you're the assaulted officer, eh, Johnnie?" Flaherty said, coming out from behind his desk to shake hands. "I nearly choked when I saw your name on the petition against the boy. Welcome back to the Sixth Precinct! We've missed you."

"Thanks, Mike," Stenn said, and took the chair at a nearby empty desk. "It's good to be here."

Flaherty sat back down, the chair squeaking under his weight. "How's the family?"

"Fine. Sharon's still teaching. Davey's eight now and playing Little League."

Flaherty shook his head. "Geez, they grow fast."

"They sure do." If they survived. "Are the MacLeods here yet?"

"Yeah, but the kid's still with Social Services. I handed the parents over to the truant officer."

"Figures." Abusive and controlling parents didn't like anyone else influencing their kids, or noticing when something was wrong.

"This one's really under the radar, too. As far as the school system's concerned, this MacLeod kid didn't exist before we picked him up yesterday. No test scores, no medical records, no Social Security number even. He's not in the public schools or any of the nearby private schools, and there's no IHIP."

"No what?"

"Individualized Home Instruction Plan," Flaherty explained. "Homeschoolers have to file them. The MacLeods didn't. Not for last year, not for this year."

"Somebody's teaching him," said the uniformed cop at the coffee machine.

Flaherty twirled in his chair to ask: "What do you mean, Chen?"

"I talked with him yesterday in the squad car. The kid speaks English, French, and Arabic, and he said he's learning Japanese. He knew a lot of history, and he does baseball and karate and he talked about riding horses. Hell, he even knew what a sonnet was."

"Karate, huh?" Flaherty turned to Stenn. "The kid nail you good?"

"Nah, it's nothing." Though the kid did have a good arm on him. "And that's not why I filed the complaint."

"It's the principle of the thing," Flaherty said, nodding. "Don't worry. I think we convinced him hitting cops was serious. We scared him pretty good, eh, Chen?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," Stenn said. "Because with that 'father' of his..."

"Yeah, I saw the file. Murder suspect, huh?"

"Murderer," Stenn corrected. "Multiple. I know it." He grimaced in disgust. "But I can't prove it."

"That stinks." Flaherty shook his head. "Even before I saw the file, I could tell he was a tough one, and he sure ain't what I call friendly. The wife's nice, though, and a real looker." He whistled air out between his teeth. "How's a guy like him end up with a girl like her?"

"The charm of a killer."

"Never could see it myself. Is MacLeod rich?"

"Filthy."

"So that blue rock on her necklace is real, huh? Maybe that's what did it. Is the money legit?"

"Seems to be. On paper anyway. How those adoption papers turn out?"

"Legit. On paper anyway."

"Damn it," Stenn swore. It had been a long shot, but it had been his only chance at getting the kid safely away. No judge would remove a kid from his parents on an isolated assault charge, and the truancy thing wouldn't go anywhere either. "What did the shrink say?"

"No signs of abuse - sexual or physical. She says the kid's not a bully or a psychopath or anything. She thinks he just lost his temper when you arrested his dad."

Shit. Nash was going to walk away with the boy. "Can I watch the MacLeods?" Stenn asked. Maybe he'd spot something, maybe Nash would do something, maybe he could save the kid after all...

"Sure. Go on down."

Stenn stood in the narrow observation room and listened as Nash sweet-talked the truant officer, spouting off about some fancy school named St. Andrew's that the boy was registered for next year. The wife seemed surprised by that, but she didn't say anything. It looked like Nash had her thoroughly trained. Or thoroughly frightened. Stenn had seen that before.

The truant officer nodded and started putting papers away.

Nash asked, "Can we see John now, Mrs. Twiss?"

"Yes, you may. I'll tell them to send him along."

She left and Stenn waited, hoping that Nash would say something or do something that he could use. But he just sat there, holding hands with his new wife, both of them looking as nervous and as eager as any other couple whose kid had been picked up by the cops and held overnight.

Then the door opened, and John came running in, yelling, "Dad! Mom!" and there were kisses and hugs and all the required happy-family-reunion things.

Stenn was watching Nash's hand. It stayed on the boy's shoulder or on the boy's head the whole time, touching, patting...controlling. Nash smiled at Alex over the boy's head, with what looked like true love.

Oh, Nash was a smooth one, all right. He had the "loving husband and father" routine down cold.

"How was it? How are you?" That was Alex, new to the job of mom but trying hard.

"OK," said the boy. "I stayed at this house last night. The food wasn't all that great. There were two other kids, little ones, and I made them some jumping origami frogs and we had a race, then they had to go to bed. I got to stay up a while and watch a video, but I'd seen it before. I wanted to call you, but they wouldn't let me, and the phone had a lock on it. Weird. This morning it was kind of the same-boring. So I read a book. And breakfast was toast with eggs over easy." He wrinkled his nose. "I hate 'em when they're all squishy."

"How was it yesterday?" Nash wanted to know. "With the cops?"

"Oh, yeah! There was this incident we had to go to on our way here; some guy got knifed - I had to stay in the car - and the siren was so loud! It was way cool."

Stenn didn't think the kid looked scared at all. He'd have to talk to Flaherty.

"And afterwards?" Nash said. "When you got here?"

"Oh. Yeah. Well..." He scuffed his foot on the floor. "This one cop was pretty mad. And kind of mean. And I got fingerprinted and booked and this lady asked me the same questions in a bunch of different ways, and then I had to sit in this cell for a really long time with nothing to do. The kids in the other cell..." His dark eyes had the hunted, wary look that spoke of nightmare fears, and his voice came out quiet and small: "Am I going to have to go to jail?"

Stenn nodded, satisfied now.

"I don't know, John," she said. "We hope not. The lawyer's working on that. But you know, you did hit someone. That's not allowed."

"Yeah, but-"

"That's not allowed," she repeated more sternly.

"But sometimes Dad-"

"Never hit just because you're mad," Nash broke in, and Stenn cursed him for the lying, devious, and way-too-fucking-smart son of a bitch that he was. Sometimes Dad _what_?

"And never fight when you're angry," Nash added, which was good advice, even if it did come from him.

"But sometimes you do fight," protested the boy. "Sometimes you have to."

Nash met Alex's eyes, and they were both serious now. "Sometimes," Nash agreed slowly, but that was all he said, and she stayed silent.

"Shit," Stenn said to himself, wishing he could smoke a cigarette. There was nothing there he could use.

Nash put his arm around John's shoulders. "Come on, let's get out of here."

"I'm hungry," John said. "Can we go to the sushi restaurant now?"

"Sure, John," Nash said, with an easy, happy smile that Stenn didn't trust at all. "Sure."

Stenn trailed them through the precinct, which was easy, because he knew where they would have to go. Nash went off to sign some papers, and Alex Johnson sat with the boy in the waiting area downstairs.

"I need to use the bathroom," John said, and finally she was alone.

Stenn came out from behind the door.

"Lieutenant Stenn." She didn't sound happy to see him. "You shouldn't be here."

"Why?" he challenged. "You afraid your husband won't be able to control himself if he sees me?"

Her eyes narrowed, but all she said was, "This isn't your precinct."

"Used to be. I'm visiting."

She shrugged and turned away.

"Miss Johnson-"

"I told you before," she said, still not looking at him, "it's Mrs. MacLeod now."

"Look," Stenn said, sitting down on a chair near her, "I know you're angry with me, and I'm sorry I screwed up your wedding. I didn't know that was going on. But you have to listen to me. We only have a few minutes before he comes back."

She looked puzzled. "You mean John?"

She wasn't stupid, Stenn reminded himself. She was just blind right now. "No, I mean Nash."

"His name is MacLeod," she corrected tartly. "Like mine."

"OK, MacLeod," Stenn conceded. Whatever it took to get her to listen. "Everything's fine now between you two; everything's great. He's charming, smart, funny...the man of your dreams. But I've seen his kind before. When he starts getting angry with you - and he will - you're not going to be safe. You or the boy. So always have some cash handy. Keep a credit card and a bank account in your own name. Don't let him know. And the very first time he loses it, get out. Take the boy if you can. Don't wait. Don't think it'll get better. Don't think it's just that one time. Get out while you can."

She turned wide, surprised eyes to him. "You're worried for us."

Stenn was surprised, too, that she hadn't known. He sure as hell wasn't chasing after the beheader for fun. "Yeah."

"Lieutenant..." She shook her head and half-smiled to herself. "Thank you for your concern, but we'll be fine."

She just wasn't getting it. These bastards sure knew how to blind people into love. "Mrs. MacLeod, you're married to a killer," he said bluntly.

Her dark blue eyes didn't waver. "Connor's a good man."

Stenn had made careful study of the different ways that people lie. Alex Johnson was an honest woman, and she wasn't lying now. But she was telling a very different kind of truth. "Funny thing, Mrs. MacLeod," Stenn said softly, "you didn't tell me I was wrong."

"Then I'll tell you now," she said, standing up and looking down at him. "You're wrong. Connor's not a murderer. And John and I will be fine."

Stenn stood, too, and watched as she walked down the hall and waited for John. He came out of the bathroom about the same time as Nash reappeared, and the three of them left the station hand in hand, one small, happy family.

Fuck.

Stenn went outside and chain-smoked three cigarettes, and then went upstairs and did the paperwork to drop his complaint against John MacLeod. No point in making Nash angry with the boy. That would come all too soon. As for the woman...Stenn moved her from the list of likely victims to the much shorter list of likely accomplices in crime.

And whatever they did, wherever they went, Stenn would be watching and waiting and paying attention, just like his old sergeant had said. One day, he'd nail them.

He just hoped that day came soon enough to save the boy.

Stenn went home early that afternoon, to be with his wife and his son.


	5. Honeymoon

**Jailbirds - Marriage Gifts**

* * *

"Here they come!" Richie called from his lookout post near the door of the antique store. Duncan set down the silver punch bowl that he and Rachel had been discussing, and they went with Margaret to greet the prodigal son. John didn't seem at all bothered by his ordeal, though Connor and Alex looked tired and hot. It was nearly one hundred degrees out there, a hot and steamy August afternoon.

Rachel and Margaret gave John hugs, Duncan shook his hand, and Richie hailed John with a shout of "Jailbird!" and a high-five.

Duncan could tell that Connor was not amused by Richie's lighthearted treatment of arrest and incarceration. He was sure that Richie knew it too, but it didn't stop Richie from turning to Connor and putting his hand up again. Connor looked at it as if it were a plucked chicken hanging to drain.

"It's a club!" Richie said, not lowering his hand. "We're all jailbirds now!"

"Yeah, Dad!" John chimed in. "And Uncle Dunc, too!" He put his hand up, and Duncan slapped it. Then John turned expectantly to his dad, his hand up once more.

"All right," Connor finally agreed, and smacked John's hand with his own. Then he smacked Richie's - hard. "Jailbirds R us," Connor continued. "Everyone who's been arrested can join. Alex?"

"Sorry, no," she said, perching on the edge of Rachel's desk. "The closest I come is a speeding ticket."

"Margaret?"

"Oh, no. Not me." She sat down on one of the Louis XVI chairs.

"Rachel," Connor called next, and it wasn't a question.

"Rachel?" Richie repeated incredulously. She narrowed her eyes at Connor but came over to join the circle.

"What were you arrested for?" John asked, his eyes wide.

"It was a long time ago," she said, sounding as prim and proper as only a well-bred woman of a certain age with an English accent could. "Never mind." Then she grinned at him and offered her hand. "Jailbird."

"Yeah!"

After the round of hand slapping was done, Richie asked Connor, "Should I get the cream puffs now?"

"They're for Rachel," Connor replied severely, "so no. And anyway, you're not going into my place unsupervised."

"What's for me?" Rachel said, turning from her conversation with Margaret.

"Connor made cream puffs this morning," Richie told her. "And man, did they look good."

"Cream puffs?" John said immediately. "Great! I love cream puffs."

"They're for Rachel," Connor said again.

"Connor," Rachel said, with the smile that Duncan had only ever seen her give to Connor, "how sweet. Thank you."

"Thank you," he said in return, with a hint of a bow.

"I always asked for cream puffs for my birthday instead of cake when I was a girl," Rachel confided, "and Connor--" She stopped then smiled directly at Margaret, the only person in the room who didn't know about Immortals. "Connor remembered me telling him about that," Rachel finished smoothly. "But I'm sure I couldn't possibly eat them all."

"I could," Richie said.

"Me, too!" John agreed.

"Then it's a good thing for the rest of us that Connor didn't make them for you," Duncan said, trying to sound as severe as Connor. He didn't think it had worked; John and Richie ignored him.

"Would you, Dad? Next time? Or for my birthday?"

"We'll see," Connor said. "Want me to bring them down, Rachel?"

"Let's go upstairs to eat them. I'll ask Steve to mind the shop."

And so they feasted on cream puffs in the loft. Alex and her mother each had two, and all of the men had three. John went for four. Rachel ate one and set two aside to take home for her and Mitzi. "I'll leave these four here for you," she said to John.

"Breakfast!" John exclaimed in greedy delight.

As they stacked the dishes in the kitchen, Duncan heard Alex say, "You didn't really expect her to take all two dozen, did you, Connor?"

"Of course not," he said, rinsing chocolate sauce off a plate. "But Rachel likes to share."

Duncan nodded to himself, smiling. That was Rachel, all the way.

"Dr. Burns and I are going to Greenwich Village this afternoon, Alex," Margaret was saying. "He said he wanted to show it to me. We'll be back around 5:30 to say goodbye before you leave for the airport."

"Oh," she said then gave her mother a hug. "Uh, have fun."

"We will!"

After Margaret left, Alex and Connor exchanged identical looks of amused and speculative surprise. Rachel, Duncan noticed, was looking satisfied. He smiled again. Rachel also liked to manage things - and people.

And she was doing it again right now.

"I was going to give this to you yesterday," Rachel said to Alex and Connor while she went to the Japanese stepped chest near the stairs and took out a flat package about the size of a large book. The gift was wrapped in green and blue paper with thin red and yellow ribbons...MacLeod colors.

"A wedding present?" Alex asked as she sat down on the sofa. Connor sat next to her and put his arm around her shoulders, not casually, because Connor had never been casual about love, but comfortably... naturally.

"A marriage present," Rachel corrected with the mischievous smile that hadn't changed since she was six years old.

Richie grinned at that, and Connor, who had been so relaxed a moment ago, suddenly looked alert... and uneasy.

"Can I open it?" John asked, plopping down on the floor in front of Alex.

"You opened half the presents last night, John," Rachel said. "It's Alex's turn."

Connor narrowed his eyes at her and straightened, moving his arm off Alex's shoulders to reach for the box. "I'll open it."

But Alex kept it out of his reach. "Rachel said it was my turn." Her fingers were already busy untying the ribbons. Duncan moved to stand behind the couch so he could see better. John was up on his knees, peering over the edge of the box as Alex removed the lid to reveal a trio of wooden spoons.

"Oh," she said blankly.

They were excellent wooden spoons, Duncan could tell, hand-carved of reddish cherry, dark walnut, and pale birch, all neatly laid out on a bed of green cotton cloth in a handsome oak box, but still, they were wooden spoons.

"I guess I will be cooking more now," Alex said with a brightness that sounded more forced than cheerful.

"Oh, they're not for cooking," Rachel told her.

"No?" Alex said, even more blankly than before.

"Rachel..." Connor's warning was halfway between growl and plea.

Rachel ignored him. She did that fairly frequently, Duncan had noticed. Not if there was a threat from an Immortal, of course, but otherwise, if she thought Connor was being high-handed or domineering or just plain stubborn (all of which happened fairly frequently), she'd either give him a piece of her mind or calmly do what she had been going to do anyway. "It's good for him," she'd told Duncan a quarter of a century ago. "Connor needs someone to stand up to him, who isn't afraid to tease him. He takes himself too seriously sometimes. He needs to laugh."

She was right, Duncan knew. The grimness slowly descended, layer after layer, year after year, like the shell of an oyster, until you were so closed up - so closed in - that nobody could reach you, and you couldn't really feel. Love could get in, but love was hard to find, and decades could go by without it.

Laughter was the other key.

Laughter was why Duncan had turned off the water last night, and part of why he treasured Richie's company, irritating though he could be at times. Amanda and Fitzcairn held that key, too. Along with trouble and excitement and uncertainty, they brought joy.

Like Tessa. She'd always been able to make him laugh, and she had definitely known how to tease him (in several ways). And she'd never been afraid to give him a piece of her mind.

Alex was a lot like her. Brenda had been too, and from the stories Duncan had heard, so had Heather. Connor liked strong women. He'd certainly raised Rachel to be one.

"Heather had a wooden spoon," Rachel was saying to Alex, and of course John and Richie were eagerly listening in. "And when Connor got..."

"Stubborn?" Richie offered.

"Hardheaded," Duncan supplied.

"...pigheaded," Rachel chose, "then she'd smack him about the ears."

Alex was grinning in delight. "With the spoon."

"With the spoon," Rachel agreed, and Alex took out the birch spoon and hefted it in her hand as she regarded Connor with a thoughtful, measuring gaze.

Connor was shaking his head. "I should never have told you that story," he said to Rachel.

Rachel just smiled.

"Thank you," Alex said and got up to hug her. Connor hugged Rachel, too, but without a word.

"You're welcome," Rachel said to him anyway, still smiling. "Steve's leaving at three, so I have to go back to the shop," she announced then said to Duncan, "And you three should be packing for your camping trip."

"Yes, you should," Connor agreed promptly and ushered them out the door.

Duncan and Richie and John found themselves standing in the stairwell and listening as Connor locked the door. "Mom and Dad are tired," John said, nodding sagely. "During lunch I overheard Dad say something about going to bed right away."

"Uh, right," Richie agreed. "That must be it."

"Right." Duncan cleared his throat and avoided meeting Richie's gaze. "Let's go pack."

But they didn't even have time to drag out the sleeping bags before Alex's brother and his family knocked on the door. The kids wore identical T-shirts showing the Statue of Liberty holding an ice cream cone in place of a torch; their parents looked sunburned and stressed.

"Come on in," Duncan said, standing back as the kids barreled through the door and Pete and Lara trailed behind. John abandoned the rope he was untangling and got up to say hi to Jimmy and Elaine.

"Thanks, Duncan," Lara said. "We won't stay long; Pete and I were - Jimmy, don't touch that! - were just going to say goodbye to Alex before she left, and she said we could stop by this afternoon."

"She'll be delighted to see you," Duncan said. "And Connor will be, too, of course."

"You sure it's a good time?" Pete asked. "Mom said things got kind of busy around here, what with John..."

"I'm sure," Duncan said firmly. "John's back now; everything's fine. And I know Alex would hate to miss seeing you. Go right on up. John, why don't you take them in the elevator?"

After they left, Richie flopped on the sofa and asked, "How long do you think it will be before Connor kicks them out?"

"Fifteen minutes maybe."

"I'm betting on ten. He seemed awfully impatient."

Duncan tossed Richie a beer from the refrigerator then sat down across from him. "I believe the word is 'frustrated'." He twisted the lid off his own bottle and took a long, cool swallow.

"You mean they haven't..." Richie sat bolt upright. "Not yet? They had all last night!"

"They had about three hours," Duncan corrected. "As you recall, Connor was in the shower at 10 o'clock, and he woke up around one to make phone calls."

"They could have...I mean, before..."

"He'd been awake for more than thirty-six hours." Duncan raised an eyebrow at him. "Ever had sex when you're that short on sleep?"

"Yeah."

"Was it good?"

"Well-"

"For her?" Duncan said pointedly.

"Uh..." Richie abandoned that topic and blurted, "What about yesterday afternoon? They had more than two hours."

"Connor was pretty hungry," Duncan pointed out. "And he probably took a shower. First."

"Oh, yeah."

"And they had to remake the bed," Duncan continued.

"True."

"And turn off the alarm clocks."

Richie grinned. "After they found 'em. Hey, did they find-"

"Nope," Duncan said. "John said it was still there."

"Cool. I'd love to see the look on their faces when they find it."

"Me, too," Duncan said.

"OK, so shower, sheets, food, clocks," Richie said, ticking them off on his fingers. "But all that takes what? Forty-five minutes? That still leaves over an hour. I mean, how long does it take?"

Duncan raised his other eyebrow at him.

Both of Richie's eyebrows went up; then he slumped back on the sofa, muttering, "Geez." He shook his head and finally opened his beer. A few moments later, he said thoughtfully, "You know, Connor did say he thought a sense of tradition was missing from modern life. Chaperons, courting, waiting until the wedding, that sort of romantic stuff."

"Yes, he did," Duncan agreed. "And a real honeymoon is truly special."

"Especially in Scotland," Richie pointed out.

"Absolutely."

Richie leaned forward conspiratorially. "Think we can keep 'em busy until their plane leaves tonight?"

Duncan grinned back, sharing in the joy. "Oh, yeah."

"But it can't just be us."

"Right." Connor would have no compunctions about making his displeasure very clear, not with other Immortals. Painfully clear.

"I know!" Richie said with a snap of his fingers. "Let's call Ben."

Duncan dialed the number, and Ben answered on the third ring. Halfway through Duncan's explanation, Ben interrupted to say, "I'm your man. Should I bring the shaving cream?"

"Shaving cream?" Duncan repeated

"For the car."

"Uh, no." Some things were simply beyond the pale, and Duncan knew that Connor's Porsche was one of them. Besides, "They're taking a taxi to the airport," he explained. "We're just keeping them busy until then."

"Right. I'll be there in forty minutes."

John came back down about twenty minutes later. "You were up there a while," Richie commented.

"I was showing Jimmy and Elaine how to rappel off the walkway," John said. "It was great! But Dad said they had to leave. And he said I should be busy packing for the camping trip."

"Your dad is right," Duncan said, and he went to get the sleeping bags. John went back to untangling the rope, and Richie worked on the food.

"How many batteries should I take, Uncle Dunc?" John asked, peering into the hollow tube of a flashlight.

"Why don't you call your dad and ask him?"

"Good idea!" John said, setting down the flashlight, and he punched in the number of Connor's cell phone. It rang four times before it was answered. "Hey, Dad." His nose wrinkled in puzzlement. "You OK? You sound kind of funny."

Duncan rolled the sleeping bag tightly and once again avoided meeting Richie's gaze.

"OK. What? Oh, yeah. How many extra batteries do you think I should take?...No, Uncle Dunc said I should ask you." John listened intently then held out the phone. "Dad says he wants to talk to you."

"Sorry, John," Duncan said, both hands virtuously occupied with tying knots. "Tell him I'm busy."

John relayed the message then said, "Dad says to tell you he's busy, too." He turned back to the phone. "Doing what, Dad?"

Richie was attacked by a sudden fit of coughing. Duncan kept his head down as he gave the knot an extra tug.

"OK, Dad," John said then turned off the phone. "Dad says he's packing, and I should be, too."

"Packing what?" Richie murmured.

Duncan swung the bedroll over his shoulder as he got to his feet. "So, how many batteries?"

John was suddenly indignant. "He never said!"

"Why don't you call him back?" Richie suggested brightly, and John went back to punching away.

"I'll take some of this downstairs," Duncan said quickly and picked up a bag as he headed for the door. He really didn't have much to say to Connor right now.

Duncan waited at ground level until Ben arrived, and they waited just a few minutes more before Ben went to knock - repeatedly - on Connor and Alex's door. It was nearly two minutes before Connor let him in.

Richie and Duncan gave each other another high-five before they went in the apartment. Richie was humming, "Isn't it romantic?" as they carried the gear down to the ground floor.

It was four-thirty when they heard Ben bidding Connor and Alex farewell. "Now what?" Richie asked. "There's an hour to go."

"Now we go for a walk. And then we come back."

"So, when Connor feels an Immortal show up, with Rachel in the store..."

Duncan nodded. "He'll be downstairs in less than a minute." He would have no choice.

"How long a walk?"

"Just long enough."

"Man," Richie said with a shake of his head and an appreciative grin, "you are evil."

Duncan smiled.

* * *

**The Couple - Alone at Last**

* * *

"You're a popular fellow," Alex commented to Connor as he shut the door behind Ben.

"I think he came to see you," Connor said with a smile. "Like your brother did. Like your mother's going to do in-" he checked his watch "-fifty-seven minutes."

"Scotland's a long way away," Alex said. "They're just saying goodbye."

"I know," he said, taking her hand as they went upstairs. "And I'm glad they stopped by."

"Really?"

"Really. Though Ben's timing was..."

"Annoying," Alex said. She was getting tired of rebuttoning her shirt.

"Very," Connor agreed. "Although I was going to say suspicious."

She sighed. "Duncan again."

"No doubt."

"And John's phone call."

"Of course."

"Should we get a hotel room?" she asked.

"And waste some of our remaining fifty-six minutes with check-in?" He shook his head. "I have plans for every minute." He paused at the top of the stairs to kiss her, and that was one minute very well spent. The walk to the bedroom took only a few seconds more.

"Are you hungry?" she asked, leaning her hands on his shoulders for balance as he knelt in front of her and carefully removed her shoes.

"No." His hand slid halfway up her calf, lingered there, and moved back down to encircle and caress her ankle before letting go.

She kept her hands on his shoulders as he stood, then slid them to the front. "Tired?" she asked, her fingers poised on the top button of his shirt.

"No."

She undid the top button and paused to asked, "Worried?" When he shook his head, she undid three more. She tugged his shirt free of his slacks, taking her time with that. "And you're not expecting any phone calls?" she asked, her hands waiting at his belt.

"I told John not to call."

"Good," she said, smiling slowly, because the weather forecast of hot and steamy was finally coming true. "I have some plans of my own."

Connor smiled back. "Here? Or the bed?"

"Here," she said. "For now."

But when, a few moments after they moved to the bed, Alex found herself saying, "Oh my God," it wasn't because of what Connor was doing.

He lifted his head. "What?"

She pointed wordlessly to the ceiling, where the final memento from Duncan, Richie and John was magnificently displayed. Connor twisted to look up, and then he started to laugh.

Alex had been so pleased with the conversation she'd had with John the night Connor had been in jail, about secret identities and bad guys and good guys, including Superman. Who would have thought John would decide to take a life-size poster of Superman (in full fly-mode with arm outstretched and cape billowing in the wind), paste Connor's face on it, and tape it directly above their bed, so that - if Alex decided to open her eyes at an opportune moment, which of course she had - she could look up and see Superman hovering above?

"Leave it," Connor said, in between gasps for air, but Alex was having none of it. She stood to rip it down, while Connor lay back on the bed and watched, hands behind his head, still smiling. "I need help," she told him, because she couldn't quite reach it.

He didn't move, except to tilt his head this way and that as he admired the poster above. "I think I look good."

Yes, he did, but even so...

"The cape makes the outfit, don't you think?" he asked.

Alex tilted her head back to consider. "I think it's the boots."

"I have boots," he offered immediately.

"Red?"

"No," he admitted. "But I do have red shorts."

"Not that tight," she noted. "Or with a yellow belt."

"There's a costume shop on 2nd Street."

She put her hands on her hips and glared down at him, where he still lay at ease on the bed. "I am not," she declared, "having sex with Superman until I've after I've had sex with you, Connor MacLeod. And I have not having sex at all until this poster is off the ceiling."

That did it. Connor stood on the bed to pull the poster down, and now Alex lay back down on the bed and admired the view. Definitely a superman, even with no boots.

"Better?" he asked, after he folded the offending poster and set it on the dresser.

"Much," she agreed, smiling and holding out her hand to him. They still had forty-three minutes to go. He came back to the bed and leaned over to kiss her, and then - once again - things went wrong.

"Shit," Connor muttered, rolling off the bed. "An Immortal's here."

"Isn't it Duncan? Or Richie?" Alex asked.

"Maybe. Maybe not." He met her eyes grimly as he zipped up his slacks. "But Rachel's downstairs - alone." And then he was gone.

As she reached for her own clothes she heard him running down the stairs. Alex dressed and followed quickly, then paused cautiously at the top of the stairs that led to the store. She could hear Duncan and Richie singing cheerfully, and John adding some embellishments of his own. Alex swore, fluidly and at length, ending with a single heartfelt word: "Idiots." Then she marched down the stairs.

Connor was standing there, his sword in his hand. When he'd left their bedroom, he'd been a warrior prepared to do battle. Now, he looked eager for the kill.

Alex knew exactly how he felt.

"Alex!" Duncan hailed her exuberantly. He sounded so happy he seemed almost drunk, but Alex recognized it for his annoyingly cheerful mode, a mode he found vastly amusing, even if others didn't always agree. He came towards them, arms outstretched.

Connor sidestepped him then stopped him with the flat of the blade against his torso. Duncan was still grinning. Connor hadn't smiled yet.

Duncan glanced down at the blade, then at his kinsman. "You look good," Duncan said to him and added a "heh-heh" in passable imitation of Connor's chuckle. Connor shook his head with the same mixture of amusement and exasperation that he'd shown about the cold shower, then finally relented and put the blade down.

"Hey, man, you're not dressed yet!" Richie called out. "Shouldn't you be getting ready? After all," he said innocently, "you don't want to miss your flight. And traffic can be really bad. This is New York."

Connor's look could have pierced even lead, but Richie seemed impervious. He just stood there, grinning cheerfully, just like Duncan.

"There's an accident at the tunnel, Connor," Rachel said. "You really should be getting ready to go. You'll still have time to say goodbye to Margaret and Sean, though; they'll be here in about thirty minutes."

"Great," he muttered, and Alex swore softly to herself. Soon had fled and later had returned, with a vengeance.

"Do you want me to go get your bag, Alex?" John offered. "Um, I mean, Mom?"

"Sure, John," Alex said, giving in and trying to be gracious about it. "Thanks."

More than three hour hours later, Alex sighed in frustration as she watched from the tiny window while the airplane lifted into the darkening sky. "Duncan," she declared, "is an idiot."

Connor's only reply was a snort of agreement.

"I can't believe he-"

Connor lifted an eyebrow at her.

"OK, you warned me," she admitted. "But still..."

"Like I said, Duncan's dependable."

Dependably annoying. Alex looked out the window again, and watched as lights disappeared behind them, leaving only the darkness of the ocean stretched below. She sighed again.

"You can't blame the picture on Duncan," Connor told her. "That was John."

"Duncan helped him put it up. John couldn't have reached the ceiling."

"Yeah," Connor agreed. "But, hey: Superman."

"There is that," she admitted. "You make a good Superman."

"And you make a good Lois Lane. Nosy, persistent, determined to ferret out secret identities..."

She couldn't argue with him about the nosy and persistent part. After all, back in January she'd trailed him halfway across Manhattan, listened in on his phone call, followed him to Scotland and tracked him down in the Highlands, and then waited for him to finish making a sword. But... "She's not blonde."

"And she doesn't have a costume," he pointed out. He grinned and reached out a gentle finger to trace an imaginary mask around her eyes. "You want to be Cat Woman?"

Cat Woman might be fun. And she had claws. Alex still hadn't decided what to do to Duncan and Richie, but she wasn't going to forget. Or forgive. But she could wait. She was on her honeymoon, and she had better things to do right now. "Cat Woman's not blonde, either," Alex replied. "None of the super heroines are." She'd noticed that at the age of twelve. "Not Wonder Woman, not Cat Woman, not Batgirl. Not even Mrs. Peel."

"Supergirl's blonde."

"Oh," Alex said in surprise. How had she missed that? "Did she have a TV show?"

"Guest appearances on Superman sometimes, but she mostly shows up in the comics."

So that was why. Alex had never been a comic book reader. It seemed Connor was. "You have them all, don't you," she said, visualizing boxes and boxes of every comic book ever printed, neatly stored in a warehouse.

He shrugged. "I'm an antique dealer. They're collectible."

"And the women wear next to nothing." They certainly never bothered with bras.

Connor just grinned. "Supergirl has a cape. And red boots." This time his finger traced a line just below her knees.

"Like Superman?"

He nodded, his eyes intent on hers, his voice very low. "But no tights. Just skin."

"Only skin?" she challenged, speaking as softly as he.

"Not at all. She wears a blue top, with the red S inside the pentagram." With his hand he lightly drew the entire symbol, across the top of both her breasts, then down and over and up again before he traced each curve of the S. "And a golden belt." His hand dropped to her waist, slid to the center, then his fingertips dipped lower as he said, "Shaped like a V."

Alex managed a feeble-sounding, "Oh."

"There's this little red skirt." Now his hand rested on her thighs. "Pleated, like a cheerleader's." His hand wandered slowly higher. "It comes down to just about ... here."

Alex's "oh" was barely more than a gasp. "Connor..."

His lips were nuzzling at the sensitive place just below her ear, so she felt the vibrations of his voice against her skin instead of actually hearing the word: "Yes?"

"Would you like something to drink?"

Alex very quickly opened her eyes. The flight attendant standing in the aisle next to their seats wore a too-bright smile and a scarf patterned in a tartan of green and blue over a navy blue outfit. "Coffee, tea?" she offered cheerfully. "We have a fine selection of whisky."

For an insane moment, Alex considered asking her to bring them a blanket and then go away, but Connor was already asking for an orange juice, and Alex sighed and ordered a Sprite.

It was for the best, really, she told herself as she chewed on an ice cube. She didn't really want to start her marriage in an airplane. And besides, there was bound to be some interruption - turbulence, another passenger, dinner, a hijacker, a lightning strike - something would happen. She just knew it.

Connor patted her hand consolingly, and Alex leaned against his side, trying not to sigh.

They would be in Scotland soon.

Except, when they arrived Scotland at about nine o'clock on Wednesday morning, their luggage hadn't. "I'm so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. MacLeod," the lady behind the counter said. "We'll give you a complimentary guest package, of course."

The guest package contained basic toiletries, but no sword. Connor wasn't about to leave without that. "How much longer?" he asked the lady, after they had eaten breakfast, walked up and down the airport to ease out the kinks from sitting too long, called Rachel to tell her they had arrived safely and hear—much to their relief—that the charges against John had been dropped, then browsed a bookstore.

"They bags are on their way in from Amsterdam," she said. "Thirty minutes."

Bad weather turned that into an more than an hour.

"Ready?" Connor asked after they finally cleared customs and Connor's sword was safely with them once more. It was nearly noon.

"Very," Alex said as she got into the rental car. They'd slept on the plane (those first-class seats helped a lot), and they had a room waiting for them in the Highlands. That was a good place to start a marriage, especially this marriage. Better than Glasgow, certainly.

But first, they had to get there. Traffic was busy getting out of Glasgow, and then they had to change a tire (tyre, she supposed she should spell it now). At least it wasn't raining. And it was beautiful, she thought as the car wound its way through the hills, with gray mountains stark against the blue sky, and black-faced sheep dotting the green hillsides and darker fir trees rising behind. The last time she'd been to Scotland, it had been the middle of February, and everything had been cold and damp and gray. Today was actually warm.

"Hungry?" Connor asked after they'd been driving for an hour.

"Yes," she admitted. "Starving."

"Me, too." A few miles later, he parked in front of a large, white hotel with dormer windows on its second floor. Alex ordered the salmon with beetroot chutney and crushed potatoes and leeks. "Not going to get the grilled haggis and clapshot?" Connor asked.

Alex gave him a brilliant smile. "I'd thought I'd eat some of yours." Whatever it was.

Even after she'd eaten some, she still didn't know. But it didn't matter, and she didn't care. "Let's go," she said, and they did, back to following the dark ribbon of road.

Eventually, they passed a sign for the Strath of Orchy, and a few miles later Connor said, "Almost there," even though she hadn't asked. She'd been very proud of herself for not asking. Connor wanted it to be a surprise. Alex resisted the urge to open a map and instead watched for glimpses of the dark-blue of a lake on the left side of the road.

"That's Loch Awe," he told her.

It was beautiful, but unfamiliar, so she knew they weren't near Loch Leven or Glencoe. She'd wandered those roads often enough this last winter, searching for a legend named Connor MacLeod. She had wondered if maybe he would choose the castle on Loch Leven, go back to the place where they had first made love, but when she had begun to mention it, some weeks before, she got no farther than, "We could go back—" when she had stopped, silenced by the sudden bleakness in his eyes. "Connor?"

"What?"

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

She'd known better. "I saw that."

"What?"

"The look in your eyes."

He'd tried to smile, to make a joke of it, then he'd finally shrugged as he said it, as if it didn't matter at all. "You can never go back."

That was true, Alex had to agree, no matter how long you lived. But so what? "Then we'll go forward," she'd said, and they had. Forward with marriage, forward with life.

And forward, finally, with this honeymoon. The water had disappeared from view, and Connor turned off the highway to a local road, and then onto a single track that wound between trees.

"Oh," she said softly, when the house came into view. Only three stories high, it was large but not imposing, built of gray stone with dozens of chimneys among its many gables. It stood at the end of a improbably green lawn, and water glimmered beyond. "It's lovely," she said, after they'd parked the car and she had a closer look at the stonework. "How—"

"1834," Connor answered, and she had to smile at his presumption, because of course he was right. What else would an archeologist ask first?

"That's Loch Awe again," he said, pointing to the water. "We can go rowing if you want. Or fishing. And there's a castle down there and some Bronze Age crannogs. They have horses to ride, too."

He sounded almost nervous. "That all sounds wonderful," she said then wound her arm through his. "For later." She smiled up at him. "For now..."

"Yes," he agreed fervently. "Now."

But first, of course, they had to check in to the hotel. Connor signed the register while Alex read brochures about the history of the house and a legend of a nearby magic well. "Your room is on the second floor," the lady at the desk told them. "With a lovely view of the loch. Michael will bring your bags up after he parks the car."

"Let's go for a walk," Alex said suddenly, and Connor's eyebrows went up in surprise.

"We have many excellent walks," the lady said. "And it's a beautiful day."

"And warm," Alex added, and now Connor smiled in understanding, and then he took her hand. They left the house and its graveled drive and clipped green lawn behind, and they headed through the forest for the hills.

They went hand-in-hand together to the Highlands, where the air carried the scent of flowers and the taste of sea, and ancient mountains stood, silent sentinels above dark still water. In a grassy hollow near a waterfall, where the sunlight glittered through the spray to dance on gray rock walls, Connor stopped walking. One eyebrow asked the question: "Here?" and Alex answered with a smile. Soon, and yet not quickly, they undressed each other, removing garments one by one, until they stood unclothed. The air caressed them, and the warmth of the sunshine was a kiss.

He took her hands in his, and his head bent to hers. Instead of the passionate kiss she was expecting, though, he murmured softly, "Joy of day and night be thine," and kissed first one cheek and then the other.

A wedding ritual, Alex realized. A blessing between husband and wife. "Joy of day and night be thine," she repeated and kissed his cheeks in turn.

Next he lifted each of her hands, saying, "Joy of sun and moon be thine," and she echoed him again.

Her fingers were still entwined with his when he laid both hands upon her heart. "Joy of men and women be thine," he said, smiling, and the quickness of his heartbeat and the heat of his skin beneath her fingers when she said the same to him left her in no doubt that this part of the blessing would soon be true.

He knelt and touched her feet, looking up at her to say, "Each land and sea thou goest," and she mirrored his actions and words again. "Each land and sea thou goest." So they knelt, facing each other, touching only where their hands clasped, and yet touching everywhere. Connor leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. "Be every season happy for thee."

His skin was soft beneath her lips; the breeze lifted a strand of his hair against her check. "Be every season happy for thee," she whispered back to him.

He kissed her eyelids, one by one. "Be every season bright for thee."

The next kiss was on the tip of her nose. "Be every season glad for thee."

He was smiling; yet Alex had to blink back tears. This one probably wouldn't come true, not for him, not for the life he had to lead and in all the centuries to come, but Alex would do her best to make it true in the time they had together. "Be every season glad for thee," she told him firmly.

Then he kissed her, softly, on the lips, and whispered, "Thou beloved one of my heart."

That was true, for ever and for always. "Thou beloved one of my heart, Connor MacLeod."

And there in the Highlands, in a sunspangled hollow of sweet grasses, they came home together for the very first time.

It didn't start raining until they were half-way back to the hotel.

* * *

**The Family - Coming Home**

* * *

Ten days into the honeymoon, Connor gave Rachel a call. She left Mitzi watching the Saturday afternoon movie and carried her beer and the phone into the kitchen to talk. "How's Scotland?" she asked.

"Beautiful."

"And the weather?"

"Perfect."

"No rain?" she asked in surprise

"Of course there's rain." Now he sounded surprised. "It wouldn't be Scotland without—"

"Without rain," she finished with him. Perfect Scottish weather would of course include rain.

"How's John?"

"Fine," she answered. "Having a wonderful time with Duncan and Richie. They called a few days ago when they were in a store buying bait to go fishing. John said he thought he saw a peregrine falcon near the river. He was very excited."

"I'm sure. We were too, when we saw a golden eagle yesterday."

Rachel took that opening immediately. "And how's Alex?"

"Just like Scotland and the weather."

"Beautiful and perfect," she supplied.

"Yeah."

Even three thousand miles away, Rachel could hear his smile, and if she closed her eyes, she could see it, too: half-delighted and half-amazed, as if he still couldn't believe it was true. "I'm glad for you, Connor."

"Thank you, Rachel." There was the usual pause of silent emotion, then he cleared his throat and asked, "How are you?"

"Oh, busy as usual with the store. We still have to get ready for the trip. When Duncan brings John back tomorrow night we'll go shopping; I don't think he has any warm clothes."

"It's not cold here."

Of course it wasn't. Anymore than it was wet. "John grew up in a desert, Connor, not running barefoot through the snow. And I remember Scotland; I'm going shopping for warm clothes, too." Connor drew breath to respond, and Rachel said swiftly, "Have you found a house you like?"

"Yes, a farm house, with plenty of room for horses and a wonderful view."

"John will be so pleased. He misses riding. I can't wait to see it."

"We'll pick you up at the Glasgow airport on Wednesday."

"Good, we'll see you then!" she said cheerfully and hung up the phone. Connor wasn't one for long farewells. Or long conversations, especially on the phone.

Alex, on the other hand, knew what a phone was for. She called the next day while Connor was out running, and Rachel got the details she craved: food, hotels, travel, the weather.

"How many sweaters have you bought?" Rachel asked.

"Three so far. I know it's only mid-September, but it's cold."

"John and I will bring hats and gloves," Rachel assured her.

"Good. It's so beautiful here, Rachel," Alex said. "The hills and the lochs and the sky... It's quiet and magnificent and wild, all at the same time."

Rachel could see it; all she had to do was close her eyes.

"Just like Connor," Alex concluded, and Rachel knew that, too.

"I'll see you both soon," Rachel said. "I'll bring John home."

A few days later, Connor drove them along the shores of Loch Shiel, then up a winding narrow road to a farmstead on the side of a hill. It has snowed the night before, and the breeze from the loch below was fresh and cold. John exploded from the car and went running to the pasture where the horses would soon roam. They toured the barn and the house, and then Alex went to the garden, sheltered from the harsh winds by one wall of the farmhouse and a low stone wall. John was running again, this time down the hill. Across the loch, Ben Nevis and the other mountains rose.

"It's beautiful," Rachel told him. "And perfect. For all of you."

He nodded, briefly because he already knew that, but happily because he wanted to share it with her, too. "It's the most glorious sight on earth," Connor said, turning to take it all in, with a smile half-amazed and half-delighted.

"It is that," she agreed softly, watching him.

He tilted his head back and looked up at the sky. "And here in the Highlands," he said, "you can always see the stars."

Unless it was raining, she thought, which was most of the time, but she knew what he meant, and he was right. He reached for her hand, and they walked along the pasture fence.

"I've traveled the world, Rachel, and I've found nothing to match it, not in four hundred years."

She nodded, knowing why. Here in the Highlands he could live with a woman he loved and a son by his side, and perhaps more children later on. Rachel nodded, satisfied. Finally, after four centuries, Connor had brought his family home.

It was about time.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

Alex and Connor are featured in these stories:

\- _**Wild Mountain Thyme**_ Winter 1994 - Alex and Connor meet  
\- _**All the Good Women**_ Summer 1994 - the courtship of Alex and Connor  
 _ **\- All the Fun**_ August 1994 - the wedding of Alex and Connor  
\- _**Dearer Yet the Brotherhood**_ June-Dec 1996: Connor and Duncan learn new things about each other and about themselves  
\- _**Overtones**_ December 1996: Connor and Alex go Christmas shopping  
\- _**Goddess Child**_ Sep 2006: at her Uncle Duncan's wedding, young Sara MacLeod learns of the family secret  
\- _**The Only Game in Town**_ In 2007, Elena Duran brings the game to the MacLeod family  
\- _**The Oak and the Ash**_ In 2016, Connor and Alex navigate the maelstrom of an immortal marriage

Alex and Connor are also in these stories:

\- _**Hope Remembered I: Friend**_  
\- _**Hope Remembered IV: Kindred**_  
\- **_Hope Triumphant I: Healer_**  
\- _**Hope Triumphant II: Sister**_

**Many thanks to:**

Christopher Lambert (Connor MacLeod)  
Deborah Unger (Alexandra Johnson)  
Sheila Gish (Rachel Ellenstein)  
Gabriel Kakon (John)  
Paul Hopkins (Tommy)  
Martin Neufeld (Lt. John Stenn)

And to Shelley, MacNair (for the spoons), Bridget (for Supergirl), Vi and Robin, who stuck with me on this story for years.


End file.
